Angel of the Bronx
by Sci F.I. Warper
Summary: When the Saints decide to continue mission in New York City, they find themselves in an ambush. Now, with Il Duce dead and Murphy missing, Conner is left to rely on the help of a young woman in the neighborhood. One who doesn't believe in their mission.
1. Prologue

A. N.: Well, here's the start of a new fanfic that I hope will be well recieved. Sorry for the prologue being so short, but more chapters to follow.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I would love to own Conner or Murpy (just for a little while, I promise I'd give them back...eventually).

_New York City_

Conner felt the breeze of the bullet at the same time he heard a small explosion just above his head. Sharp bits of concrete flew in all directions, embedding into the back of his neck.

"Fuck!" Murph's cursing to his right voiced Conner's thoughts perfectly. The clack of an empty cartridge was quickly followed by that of a gun falling to the ground.

"Watch yer mouth there, boy-o," their father ordered to his left. He let out two consecutive shots felling one mobster. Conner looked at him incredulously.

"C'mon, Da," he said, smirking, "What's a wee bit o'cursing when it's necessary?"

Il Duce glanced back at him frowning sternly. Letting out a second pair of shots he replied, "Ye been raised long enough with yer Ma, no need to talk like her. Bloody evil woman."

Conner and Murph glanced at each other, the same though going through their heads at the same time. Shaking their heads, they let out a second set of fire. As the smoke filling the alley cleared, the three watched as the last man standings slid to the ground, a trail of blood streaking down the brick wall. Without a second thought, Conner pulled a sac of coins from his pocket.

Handing some to Murph, he muttered quietly, "Let's be quick about this."


	2. A stranger in the night

Anna O'Reilly never heard the gunfire erupting not more than seven blocks from her job at corner diner. Nor did she hear about the second round not four blocks from her apartment. In fact, the only things she heard were the slurred congratulations of neighbors and other regulars as she counted down the hours till the end of her last shift.

"And I'm outta here!" she exclaimed, tossing her apron onto a peg. She glanced on the clock as the large hand struck one and added, "See you in three weeks, boys."

Walking behind the fry cooks, she gave each a peck on the cheek, playfully dancing away as they tried to grab her waist. Stopping at the door to the dining hall, she mockingly bowed to them and said, "So, you guys be nice to my gals and remember, always tip your waitresses."

Ushered out by the accompanying groan and well-aimed towels thrown at her head, she passed her boss at the cash register. Giving him a slight nod, she left the diner entering the "quiet", cool night air.

At the age of twenty-three, the second generation Irish/German/Italian mix had lived in this area of the Bronx most of her life. In fact, she had grown up in the apartment she still called home. Her job at the diner she had held since she was sixteen years old, and with it had managed to keep her building superviser at bay. Now, having finally graduated NYU with a Bachelors in Psychology, she found herself having the first honest break she'd had in a long time.

Turning the second corner, four blocks from her apartment building, Anna self-conciously gripped the bottle of mace in her hand tightly. Despite her general comfort with the neighborhood, it didn't change the fact the the crime rate had increased by leaps and bounds in the last couple of years. What with the invasion of gangs into mafia territory. While things had begun to quiet down slightly, there was still the underlining currents of hostilities. Despite the talk of most people, Anna wasn't foolish enough to blindly accept things were changing for the better.

Taking cautious steps past a particularly grimy, dark alley, she stepped into the wide beam of a street light. At the moment she felt a large hand descend on her shoulder. Her reaction was instantaneous. With a scream, she whirled around, releasing a thick spray of mace into the would-be attacker's eyes. The man let out a yell of his own, grabbing at his face with both hands and falling to his knees. Anna took no time in delivering a swift kick to his side. The man let out a low moan, and crumpled.

Taking off towards her building, she was foot away before glancing back. The dark figure still lay, unmoving, on the ground. In the light, she could just see a trailf of large, dark drops even spread in a trail stretching in her direction. Slowing down, she looked at her own feet. On the tip of one otherwise white shoe was the dark stain of a familiar looking substance.

_Oh God!_ the thought through Anna's head as she came to a full stop, _Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. I couldn't have kicked him that hard!_

She turned around completely, staring at the still figure. Part of her urged her to run, get in the building, and call the police. Another told her to check to see if the individual was alright. Later in her life, Anna was not quite sure why she listened to that half of herself. Nevertheless, still grasping the can of mace, she slowly retraced her steps. Stopping just short of the figure, she craned her neck to see if he was still alive. It took a moment to see the familiar rise and fall of breathing beneath the black jacket covering his frame. Swallowing, Anna took another step forward.

"Hey!" she called out, reaching out to tap the body with her foot, "Hey, buddy, you alright?"

She felt herself grow a little braver when the individual didn't respond. Kneeling down, she reached out slowly to tap the man's shoulder, reeling back as her hand touched something wet. The tips of her fingers were stained red with blood. Gasping in suprise, she grabbed for her purse to pull out her cell phone. Dialing 911, she began to lightly shake the man, trying to get a reaction.

"Hello, this 911, please state your emergency," a calm female voice replied on the other end.

"Hello, Hello, I need an ambulance! Someone's hurt...I..."

"Ma'am, I need to know where you are?" the operator continued in a calm tone.

"I'm at the corner off...Ahh!" Anna shrieked as a hand stretched out, grabbing her wrist. She found herself staring into a pair of pained, startling blue eyes.

"Hang up," an gravely, accented voice ordered. Anna opened her mouth to tell him he could kiss her ass as she was about to save his life, when she saw the tattoo along the hand grasping her wrist. Despite the foreign language it was written in, she had heard of it many times before. Looking at the man, she pressed the end button. The concerned voice of the operator vanished. The pair remained staring at each other for a full minute.

"I-I'm not goin' ter hurt ye," the man said, releasing her wrist, "Jus-...need to get to a church."

Still never understanding what part of her ever urged her to do this, Anna narrowed her eyes and snapped back, "No, you need to get to a hospital."

Pulling away from the man, she once again began to dial 911. The man tried to pull himself to his feet, at the same time moving to stop her. Instead, a sharp stab of pain ran through his entire body. With a Gaelic curse, he fell to the ground again. His eyes fluttered closed.

"Oh God!" exclaimed Anna, moving back towards him, "No, don't you dare pass out. Hello? Hello? Damnit, now of all times!"

All she could hear on her phone was a busy signal. Leaning towards the man, she tapped his shoulder. Thankfully, he was still letting out steady, even breaths. She was just about to call out to him again when the blinding flash of headlights passed over the pair. Straightening, she squinted into the bright lights. She felt her heart skip a beat as she realized the vehicle was slowing down.


	3. ambush

It had gone wrong. Somehow, it had wrong.

_Like shooting fish in a barrel, aye, Connor?" Murph said looking at him as the pair surveyed the damage from the shoot-out. All total, they had ended the corrupt lives of eleven men. Bullets littered the floor of the narrow alley. No matter where you turned, there were bullet holes in the walls. It would be impossible for Agent Smecker to cover for them on this one. _

_"Ye alright there, Connor?" Murph said, seeing his twin's frown. Playfully tapping him on the chest he added, "Ye need to lighten up there a bit, man. It's no good lookin' like ye got yer head up yer arse."_

_"Oh, fuck ye," Connor replied shoving him away. Murph chuckled, walking over to their father as the man finished his prayer._

_Standing up, Il Duce looked at his sons and said, "I think it's time to leave, lads."_

_The three exited the alley, turning left on the otherwise empty street. Murphy sped a little ahead of the others, the adrenaline fueled excitement from accomplishing their mission still flowing. Connor, on the other hand, held back. It didn't take being a father for Il Duce to recognize the reason behind his son's brooding expression._

_"Do ye remember what I told ye and yer brother when I joined ye on this holy mission?" he said, coming up beside Connor._

_"Aye," the other man replied, looking out at the street. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an almost empty cigarette pack. Tapping out a single smoke, he put in his mouth casually lighting it. He didn't look back as he heard his father sigh. Only when he felt a hand touch his shoulder did he look back._

_"It's not that I doubt our mission, Da," he said, "I'm just starting to wonder if we're the ones who need to see it to the end."_

_"I see," replied his father, "Well, Connor, the question ye need ask yerself then, is if not us, than who?"_

_Before Connor could reply, Il Duce continued, "There are things in this world, Connor, that a man can and cannot do, that he might or might not do. It is yer choice on this Earth which path ye take. But remember, ye must atone for it when ye stand at gates of St. Peter before God and all his angels."_

_"Aye, Da, I realize that," Connor replied. He looked back at the street. The three had walked about about three blocks and were coming up on the entrance of a dark alley. Connor had just enough time to look back at his father when the first shot rang out. _

_He knew that matter long he lived afterwords, he could never forget the look on Da's face as spray of blood erupted from his body. The eyes he and Murph had inherited widened in surprise just before the face relaxed in an expression of peace. In one movement, his body crumpled to the ground._

_"Da? Da!" Conner yelled, dropping down beside his father. He didn't need to put a hand on the man's chest to know he was already dead. At the moment a rang of gunshots erupted all around him._

_"Fuck!" Murph's cry jarred him back into reality. Glancing up, he could see his brother ducking behind a dumpster, pulling out his only loaded gun. At the same time, the concrete next to him exploded spraying him once again with sharp fragments. Rolling left, Connor moved towards the alley. Jumping towards the entrance, he felt a sharp pain explode in the back of leg._

_"Ah Jesus fucking Christ!" he exlaimed pulling himself into the alley. Glancing at his leg, he could already see the dark stain spreading down his jean. Fumbling for his gun, he peaked out from behind the corner. To his relief, he saw Murphy safe behind the dumpster. The pair looked at each other, nodding. Murphy tilted his head, asking without words what Connor could see. Connor shook his head telling him he couldn't see anything. Murphy nodded, turning over on his stomach to peak beneath the dumpster. He pulled back as another round of bullets erupted on the street. Conner also ducked as one whizzed close to his head. Whoever was shooting was good. Very good. __It was only then that he heard the sound of a car braking near by._

_**Oh shite!** he thought, **This can't be good.**_

_It happened in an instant. A single pain exploded in his side. Connor never even heard the shot. He could feel the breath leave his body as shock began to take over. The only thought that crossed his mind at that moment was a prayer that Murphy was still alive. Forcing himself up to his knees, he crawled towards the entrance. The gun had disappeared somewhere in the haze of pain as he gripped the wall. _

_Time slowed as looked behind the corner. At the same time, he saw both his greatest wish and greatest hell sitting side by side. Murphy as definitely alive. Alive enough to watch powerlessly as the edge of gun descended against his head. _

_"MURPH!" Connor screamed as his brother's head fell to one side. He couldn't tell if he was dead or alive. The attackers turned. The one with the gun aimed a poor shot towards Connor's head. Again, Connor found himself behind the wall, not knowing what was happening. He could hear someone shout in something foreign, but he couldn't tell what was said. He heard the sound of a car door opening and shuffling. Then, the slam of door and the peel of rubber on concrete. Looking out again, Connor saw a pair of tail-lights turn left onto a one-way street._

_"Murph!"he yelled, pulling himself up to his knees, "Murphy!"_

"Mu-...Murphy. No..."

Anna watched the man reathing in the hospital bed in front of her. She remained silent, not even offering a gentle shake, as what she assumed must be the most awful nightmare known to humanity played in the man's head. Deep down, in a place she regularly denied existed, she felt a sense of poetic justice in his torment. Even though she had given the man her name so he could recieve medical attention, she was far from feeling the part of generous rescuer.

Glancing out the window toward the hall, she saw her friend Jeremy, precariously balancing two cups of coffee, speaking with the floor's head doctor. As though sensing her eyes on him, Jeremy glanced in her direction. Quickly Anna averted her eyes, pretending sisterly concern for the man on the bed. A second later, she heard the door open. Looking up at Jeremy, she gave a tired smile and took one of the cups of coffee.

"So," Jeremy said, taking a seat on the opposite side of the bed, "How is he?"

"No idea," replied Anna, keeping her eyes fixed on the man. She felt more than saw the frown on Jeremy's face.

"I see," Jeremy sighed. For a minute an uncomfortable silence filled the room.

"You know. I've worked with you since you was eighteen years old. And I never knew you had a brother."

Anna looked up, meeting Jeremy's bright blue eyes. Calmly taking a breathe she replied, "Hardly much of brother. I haven't seen him since..."

The lie rolled smoothly off her tongue. It wasn't difficult really. She had lied like this so many times before. Unfortunately, based off the look on Jeremy's face, she knew he could see right through it. At the same time, though, he wasn't going to say anything. A second silence punctuated the conversation.

"I just hope you know what your doing," said Jeremy with a sigh.

* * *

A.N.: And that's all she wrote. For now anyway. Hope you guys like it, reviews would be much appreciated.


	4. captive and captivity

The first set of thoughts Connor had as morning sulight pierced its way through closed eyelids was something along the lines of wondering what the hell he had had to drink the night before. The second set was just where said drinks had led him to, considering the mattress beneath him was more comfortable than any he had slept on before. The third was just on whose soft, decidedly female hands were gently pressing against his bare shoulders.

Eyes fluttering open, Connor felt a twinge of remorse as he realized he was in a hospital bed. It had been a good long while since he had felt the flirtateous touch of a woman. At the same time though, he was more than a little thrilled to be greeted by the warm smile of his doctor. The young woman looked barely out of medical school. Her sun-lightened brown hair was pulled back in a tight, feminine ponytail. High cheekbones gave her face a picturesque quality beneath warm, concerned brown eyes.

"Ah," she said, her voice like heaven to Connor's ears, softly caressing away the headache breaking between his eyes, "That's it, Mr. O'Reilly. Easy does it."

"Who da' fuck is Mr. O'Reilly?" Connor mumbled, sounding sleepy even to himself. He saw a frown cross the pretty brunette's face as she glanced to her right.

"Sometimes the medications makes patients a little drowsy," she said calmly, "Unaware of their surroundings."

"Hey, I'm bloody well aware of my surroundings!" Connor exclaimed, irritated she was talking as though he weren't there, "I'm in a fuckin' hospital! How the hell did I get here..."

"I brought you here, brother," a second female voice spoke from his left. Connor looked over to see a younger woman staring at him with cold green eyes. She might have been beautiful in a different setting then this. Her dark-haired pettite form could have shined in the soft glow of a pub lighting and alcohol induced haze. Course, she would look even better without that perpetual frown that made it seem she had a stick shoved up her arse.

"Brother?" Connor responded, "Are ye daft, woman? Yer no sister o'mine!"

He looked over at the doctor and demanded, "Where's Murphy? Where's me brother?"

The pretty face scrunched in complete confusion. Glancing over at Connor's "sister", she begged for some help. The young woman gave a light shrug, mouthing something. The doctor nodded, backing up a step. The other woman nodded her thanks before leaning along the bed till her face was inches from Connor's.

"Yer mate's fine, brother dear," she said in a horribly faked accent, emphasising the word 'mate', "He helped me get you here from the alley. Remember? The alley?"

Connor squinted at her, confused. Then, in a single moment, everything came rushing back. The fire-fight. The car. Da. Then, this girl. She had walked past the alley just a moment after the car took off. Sprayed him with mace as though he were a common thug. Delivered a right sharp kick to his side and..._oh God in heaven, Murphy!_ Connor was aware of hands moving to restrain him. He could hear and feel the cries ripping their way up his throat and a faint moistness gathering around his eyes. Pain exploded everywhere, but he ignored it.

Anna knew immediately she had said the wrong thing. The man's blue eyes, one moment clouded from the pain killers to help him sleep, cleared in furious rage. Her arms were seized in a vice grip as the man screamed in her in various languages. She could identify a mix of Gaelic and Italian but couldn't understand what was being said. It took her a moment to sense several male nurses pulling her clear of the man. The doctor took her hand leading her back, as the nurses pushed the man back in the bed. Amazingly, he still managed to throw a couple good punches before the doctor managed to puncture his IV with a needle. Injecting the drugs, she took a deep breath as the drugs took instant effect. The patient slumped, still mumbling the name Murphy.

Turning back to Anna, the doctor frowned crossing her arms. Crossing the distance between herself and the other woman she leaned in and whispered, "We need to talk."

* * *

"Svegliarsi il ragazzo!"

_"Wake up, boy!"_

A sharp slap to the face jarred Murphy from his doze. Jumping up, he felt the sharp metal of cuffs cut deeper in his wrist. All around him was a pitch blackness he couldn't see through.

"Fuckin' hell! What the f-"

Another smack across the mouth stemmed the flow of curses.

"Parliamo soltanto italiano qui, il cane."

"_We speak only Italian here, dog."_

"Chi sono l'inferno la? Dove sono?" Murphy replied, slipping into the language without thought.

The voice in the dark chuckled.

"L'inferno veramente. Il suo proprio genere di privato un."

_"Hell indeed. Your own sort of private one."_

Murphy couldn't stop the pit of the stomach from dropping just a bit.

"Dove Connor l'è il bastardo?" he demanded, fear for his brother taking over the fear for himself. The only reply to his demand was a second, equally chilling laugh.

* * *

A.N.: Dun, Dun, Dun...Hey, you think I could honestly kill Murphy? Well, I promise, no harm will come to him...well, maybe a little...well, maybe a lot. Anyway, enjoy and please review!


	5. only the beginning

A.N.: I just want to say thanks to everyone who reviewed, you guys are definitely making me want to finish this fic and keep you on the edge of your seat. I also want to apologize for how confusing this chapter is. I kinda jump ahead and go back in time a bit, but I try to make it clear what I'm doing (like past memories are in italics and such). Anyway, hope you enjoy.

* * *

Conner stared darkly at the restraints holding his wrist to the hospital bed. The dark glower quickly moved to the woman casually reading the magazine beside him. The woman appeared not to notice his glare as she turned the page.

"How long till they be letting me go, lass?" he said aloud, trying to get her attention.

"Well, as long as you keep to our deal," she said, "They'll release you in a couple days. And I'll never have to see your face again."

_The second time Connor woke up, he felt a good deal calmer. True, the doctors on-call had decided to pump enough medication in him to level a young horse, but on the plus side he felt no pain. The peace found in the black oblivion of dreamless sleep still wrapped tightly around him. So much so, he barely felt connected to his body. He would have been more than_ _happy to just drift off again to the dark oblivion, but something stopped him._

_Shaking his head, he blinked a few times, trying to drive off the haze. He knew he was in a hospital bed (a very comfortable hospital bed) but something about it didn't feel right. Trying to sit up, he felt something catch both his wrists and ankles. Looking down, he found all four limbs restrained by soft, brown, leather cuffs. Attempting to pull himself free resulted in only a half-hearted tug that barely rattled the bed's plastic frame. Connor felt overwhelming exhaustion at even that small effort._

_**Fuck, yer in trouble, **he thought to himself, glancing around the dark room, **And Murphy's not even here to enjoy it with ye.**_

_The attempt at gallows humor did very little to help. Again, he offered a silent prayer in hope God would spare his brother, and keep him safe. The image of the car's tail-lights played through his mind. Cold rushed through him at the absence of everything familiar hit. Murphy was gone. Da was gone. His gun was gone. He couldn't even rely on the familiar touch of his rosary against his bare chest for comfort. _

_"Whose there?" he exclaimed suddenly, as the sound of a small sigh reached his ears. Squinting in the darkness, he though he could make out the form of a sitting figure. Again, the person sighed, louder this time. __Connor heard the screech of a chair being shoved back and the shuffle of feet. _

_"Close your eyes," a female voice ordered. Pressure appeared on one side of the bed, as though someone was bracing themselves to lean across the way. Connor had just enough time to close his eyes when the immediate area around him became bathed in light. He could hear the hiss of a sharp intake of breathe next to his ear._

_Opening his eyes, he blinked slightly in the new light. As his eyes adjusted, they fell on the young woman reclaiming her seat at the foot of his bed. It was the one from before. The one in a perpetually bad mood. The one from the alley._

_For a long moment, the two regarded each other. Anna bit the bottom of her lip, concentrating on what she wanted to say to the man before her. A mix of emotions filled her. Anger for example. Who was this man to think he could be judge, jury, and executioner for someone else? Who was he to decide the fate of another human being, faith and God be damned? And what about Linda? Her friend had been one of his "witnesses" weeks ago. She no longer left her house accept to go to church, fearing any action would bring swift judgement in the form of a hand gun on her. Fear. This man and his associates had killed countless people. Done so without a hint of remorse or care as to who watched. And just a little shame. Anna was ashamed that she was angry at them for not doing their "job". For not being there when she needed them. For not..._

_"Are we goin' to keep the starin' contest goin' on all night, lass?" Connor broke the silence first._

_"That depends," Anna replied coldly, "Are you going to attack me again?"_

_Connor flinched as the comment brought back the hazy memory of why he had been unconscious. He shook his head, trying to give the young woman a reassuring smile. The frown remained etched in her face._

_"No," he said, letting the expression drop._

_"Good."_

_They stared at each other in silence again. Connor shuffled a little, not used to such scrutiny since he'd been a wee lad of ten. He took the time to study the young woman a little closer. On second inspection, she was down-right gorgeous. Slight of build, but not small by any means. Connor was sure that she could stare both him and his brother in the eye without help. No, the original pettiteness he had projected on her came from the willow-like form of her frame. The poor girl looked like she half-starved herself. Thin arms to match long thin legs met along a slim body. Her breasts were relatively small in build, but appeared perfectly firm. Her face was slightly more rounded than the rest of her. Oval cheeks were framed by long, straight black hair. Dark green eyes glared out from long, lovely eyelashes. _

_"Ye know," Connor said, trying again to break the silence, "A man could take to blushin' beneath the scrutiny o' such a..."_

_"Cut the crap," Anna pierced through his attempt at conversation directly, "I know who you are."_

_"Do ye now?" replied Connor, trying to keep the conversation genial, "And who might that be, darlin'? Yer dear brother, perhaps?"_

_"What did I say about cutting the crap?" Anna shot back, letting her anger get the better of her, "Your lucky I haven't had the cops in here on your sorry ass."_

_The comment made Connor sober slightly. He had no doubts that many of the men after he and Murphy within the law enforcement community were good men. But they were at best misinformed, at worst bordering corruption. They were a hindrance mostly, and one he didn't need at the moment. He looked at Anna ponderously._

_"That does beg the question, love," he replied, "If ye know me, why havn't ye yet?"_

_The frown on Anna's face deepened. Crossing her arms, she sunk back further in the chair. Glancing left, she looked to see if any of the night watch was paying attention. _

_"Initially," she said, "You were hurt and I know you guys work in pairs, if not three. So at the time I really didn't need to find a gun in my face, punishing me for being the Saduccee that walked to the other side of the street."_

_She delivered the last half in sharp, brisk tone that barely concealed her contempt. Connor felt an initial spark of anger at the tone, annoyed that some girl (who didn't know anything) would dare to presume she could judge his and his family's action. But he quelled it, remembering the young woman had saved his life already. Even if she did not see reason, she at least was not an evil soul. _

_"And after," he replied calmly._

_"Well, I can't very well go to the police now, can I?" she responded, "I'd be accomplice of some sort for not turning you in immediately."_

_Connor frowned at the comment. Perhaps the girl was not as good as he hoped. But he could hardly throw a stone at an act of kindness, no matter how self-serving the reason behind it._

_"So what do ye plan ta do then?" he asked. The girl shrugged, as the fight in her eyes diminished slightly._

_"Keep up the charade you're my brother," she answered, "And once you get out of here, dump you off at the street corner and pray to whatever god will listen that I never see you again."_

_"Aye," replied Connor, "Seems fair enough. But how do I know ye won't jus' call the..."_

_"I won't," Anna cut him off, "You have my word."_

_"Oh, well that settles it," Connor shot back sarcastically, "The word of a rescuer who hates my guts."_

_A small smirk crossed Anna's face as she tilted her head and replied, "I'm still your rescuer."_

* * *

**Two Days Later**

"Watch where ye put that fuckin' hand!" Connor exclaimed as he felt Jeremy's hand slip down and just barely graze his ass. Jeremy glared at him, annoyed to be cursed at for such a small accident. Yet he wasn't very surprised. This Connor character shared a similar temperament to Anna, emphasis on the temper part.

"Charming," Jeremy said, looking across to Anna on Connor's left. Anna shrugged in response, focusing on baring her half of Connor's weight up the stairs. She had more on her mind to deal with than bickering between Jeremy and her "brother".

Somehow, Connor and her had managed to bully the hospital staff into an early release despite the severity of Connor's wounds. She, of course, wanted it over so she could be rid of the Saint and the emotional roller coaster that came when she looked at him. Guilt for helping him evade justice had joined her other emotions, combated by her stubborn drive to keep her word and guilt over her anger at him. Most of all, she felt that she had been thrown into a helpless situation, with herself hostage to a man who didn't appear to want to keep her a hostage. Connor, of course, just wanted to find his brother. He had managed to get a call out to Agent Smecker during his stay in the hospital. The FBI agent had reassured him there was no identification of Murphy's body in the local morgues. Of course, that meant very little in a city the size of New York, but Connor knew Murphy was alive. He could sense it, feel it in a way beyond words. The way the pair had always done, even as little children.

Unfortunately, the haste in which they had gotten out of the hospital meant only one thing. Connor wasn't strong enough to go more than a couple feet without help and he was in no condition to find his brother. In essence, Anna was forced to remain in the role of "caring sister" a little longer, unable to honestly keep her promise by dumping on the road. Besides that, it would be a little odd for Jeremy's sake if she just abandoned her "brother" on the side of the road.

"Ah, home sweet home," said Connor, as Anna unlocked the door to the two bedroom apartment. Shuffling his way in, still supported by Jeremy, he made a beeline for the couch. It took only a moment for him to get settled comfortably.

"You sure you don't need anything?" said Jeremy, as Anna closed the door to the apartment behind her.

"Yeah," Anna lied casually, "We'll be fine."

Jeremy frowned.

"You're sure?" He said, seeing through Anna in an annoyingly familiar way.

"Yes, Jeremy, We'll be fine."

Jeremy nodded, sighing just a bit. Shaking his head he turned to go, only to stop and turn back to Anna.

"Listen," he said, "If there's..."

"Jeremy, go!" Anna pointed towards the stairwell. When he didn't she added quickly, "I promise, if there's any trouble, we'll call you."

Jeremy's frown deepened, but he nodded submissively. Turning, he walked back to the stairs and paused at the top.

"You know," he said, "I'm already starting to miss the "I" that belongs in that sentence."

Without another word, he walked down the stairs. Anna stayed outside her door until she could no longer see the top of his head. Then, taking a deep breath, she opened her door, entering it with a stranger once again. Connor looked up from his spot on the couch as she entered. Tensing slightly, he waited for her to say something.

"Now what?" he asked, when she didn't.

* * *

Pain and darkness. That was what the world had seem to come to for Murphy. It wasn't that he couldn't take a beating, or that the ones these bastards were giving him were the worst he'd ever had, but they didn't in the damn darkness. He couldn't even see where the blows were coming from, or from whom. He judged already that there was only one other person in the room (the punches were to precise and felt to similar for it to be otherwise. Plus there was always only one voice), but the wise-ass kept moving around. Worse, both Murphy's arms and legs were handcuffed tightly to the chair he was in.

He heard the movement of footsteps behind him before a familiar voice spoke, "Adesso giocheremo un gioco divertente."

"Che ciò è, lei fottendo il bastardo?" Murphy responded, not letting the man break his spirit.

The man laughed. A deep, rich laugh that sent a shiver down Murphy's back.

"Tale fuoco... " the man said and Murphy felt something slide around his neck. It took him a second to realize it was a rosary. It took him another second to realize just what the man planned to do with it.

"Lei sa la maniera migliore per mettere un fuoco fuori, il ragazzo? " the man said tugging slightly on the loose end of the rosary. Murphy bent his head, not replying. He had heard somewhere, that bending your head kept someone from breaking your windpipe.

"Portare via l'aria," The man answered his own question, at the same time, grabbing Murphy's hair and yanking his head back. With a tug, he tightened the necklace around the Saint's neck.

Murphy could feel his lungs burn. Sure, as kids he and Connor had held contest to see how long they could hold their breath, but this was something completely different. He was beginning to feel a small pain break out between his eyes as he began to thrash. Thrashing didn't help much as the man kept a steady hold on Murphy's hair and the chain. It was only just as black dots began to swim in front of Murphy's eyes that the man let go.

Coughing and sputtering, Murphy lost all coherence in Italian as he screamed, "What the fuckin' hell?! Who the fuck do...Why in...You fuckin'..."

He stopped only as he heard the man laugh.

"So much like your brother," the man said, in English, making Murphy stop, "He said the exact same things."

"Connor?" this was the first time Murphy heard the man speak about his brother. Any other time he asked the man had just laughed.

"What have ye done to him?"

"Oh," the man said, remaining in English, "The same I'm going to do to you. Brave boy, he was. Till he began begging."

Murphy felt his heart grow cold at the man's statement. **No, not Connor. He'd never...**

"Ye lying piece of shit!" Murphy exclaimed, "Connor would never beg from the likes o'ye. Never."

"Oh," the man replied gleefully, "But he would. Just before he died, he begged me not to do the same to you."

The cold of his heart shattered it's way into Murphy's soul. He tried to force himself not to believe the man, make himself believe this was all a ploy to get a rise out of him. But he couldn't. Something in the man's words made it sound sincere.

"Ye're lyin'," Murphy said, still trying to convince himself.

"Oh, really."

The lights came on without warning. Murphy let out a small grunt, shutting his sensitive eyes to the brightness. How long had he been in this basement, days...weeks? As his eyes began to adjust, he found himself looking at a man, about his age. His hands were gloved and his hair was nicely slicked back. He was looking at Murphy with malicious intent. In his hands was a familiar looking rosary with a Gaelic cross on the end.

"No."

The word came out in a half-breathe. For the rosary in the man's hand was not Murphy's, but Connor's.

* * *

Translations:

"Adesso giocheremo un gioco divertente. "- Now we're going to play a fun game.

Che ciò è, lei fottendo il bastardo? - What's that, you fucking bastard?

Tale fuoco... - Such fire

Lei sa la maniera migliore per mettere un fuoco fuori, il ragazzo? - Do you know the best way to put a fire out, boy?

Portare via l'aria. - Taking away the air


	6. Rules are made

A.N.: Okay, sorry for not updating on my regular daily schedule. This chapter was a little hard on me since I really wanted to capture a lot of different emotions and opinions in one swoop. Hopefully, I succeeded, but I'll leave that to you to decide. As always, reviews are appreciated.

* * *

Anna regarded her visitor, rolling his question through her mind. In all honesty, she wasn't sure really what she should do. She couldn't consciously leave him beside the alley she found him in, no matter how she wished so. He wasn't strong enough to survive very long even admits the general pick-pockets and homeless scroungers. At the same time, though, she couldn't turn him in since she had given her word not to speak to the police. Though not overly religious, Anna considered any promise she made as binding as a vow, and therefore, unbreakable. It was conflicts like this which made her wish sometimes she no longer had a conscience.

"I don't know," she finally answered, seeing the impatient expression on Connor's face.

"Oh," the older man's face dropped a little as he finished, "Well, good to know we're on the same page, then."

Anna restrained the desire to roll her eyes. Walking over to the apartments small kitchenette, she pulled out a clear plastic glass from the cupboard. Turning on the faucet, she filled half the glass with cool water. Grabbing the pills the hospital had given her, she crossed the room, stopping just short of the couch. Handing the bottle and glass to Connor she took a step back. Connor stared at the glass and medicine before looking at Anna and back at the items.

"Ye know," he said, looking back at her, "Yer under no obligation to me. Ye've done more than should e'er be asked of ya."

"Take the damn medicine," Anna ordered, "The faster you get better, the faster I get rid of you."

Connor smiled a little at the comment. The tone she delivered it with reminded him more than a little bit of Ma back home. The young woman was full of surprises.

"For someone who doesn't think much o' me," he said, opening the cap to the bottle, "Yer doin'..."

"Now for some ground-rules," Anna interrupted him, "Rule one, we don't talk about what I'm doing for you. As far as I'm concerned, I'll keep to the idea you're presence here is a laps of any good judgement I might have had."

"Now wait one fu-" Connor started.

"Rule two, let's just not talk at all," Anna continued, ignoring him, "Unless you absolutely need something. Rule three, the kitchenette and the bedrooms are mine. Your not to enter them under any circumstance. If you do, I will call the police. And rule four..."

"Quite a bit o'rules there," Connor interrupted, irritated. He paused as he saw Anna's eyes flash dangerously.

"Rule two," Anna reminded him, wagging a finger in his direction, "And rule four, you have to promise that you will forget this place once you leave. That you and the men you work with will never, never enter this building again. "

She glared at Connor, half daring him to contradict her. The Irishman looked back at her, half impressed by her spunk and half irritated at her and her damn rules. _She's helping you though,_ a small voice in the back of his head said, _not much of guardian angel, but she was sent when you most needed her._

"I promise," he replied.

"Fine," Anna responded. With that, she turned towards the room on the left.

"Hey, hey," Connor called out, "Question?"

"What?" Anna replied, not turning around.

"Is it alright ta use yer phone?"

Connor heard another sigh. Anna turned back, an unreadable expression on her face.

"I swear, " Connor said, raising his hands defensively, "I jus' want ta give me ma a call. She...she has the right ta know I'm alright."

Again, he found himself under her deep, scrutinizing glare. Keeping a straight expression, he tried to wait her out. Finally, she nodded her consent. _Why not,_ she thought, turning around, _I've already let a murderer into my house. _Pausing in the door frame, she looked back at Connor.

"Does your mother even know what it is you do?" she asked.

Connor glanced up, surprised at the question.

"I thought we weren't speaking," he said jokingly. When he saw her eyebrow raise in a warning glance he added honestly, "No. Well, she knows we do'n work at the packaging plant anymore. But we...Murphy, Da, and I...we couldn't tell her."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?" Anna demanded.

"A wee bit a both, I suppose," Connor replied, curious as to where this was going, "Can't exactly have her callin' every day makin' sure we're safe. And..."

He paused, not sure how to complete his thoughts.

"I see," Anna said, when he didn't finish. Without another word, she turned and entered the room, shutting the door closed behind her.

Connor sat there for a moment, staring at the close door. _What the fuck was that?!_he thought. He wasn't a complete idiot. He knew the girl was trying to make a point of some kind. Shaking his head, he decided not to go down that train of thought. There were more important things to do. Reaching over, he picked up the phone on the table. Dialing a familiar number, he waited. The phone raing twice before he heard the click of someone picking up.

"Smecker," the gravely voice on the other end answered.

"Any news on my brother?" Connor replied, forgetting all sense of formality.

"We have located some possible sources, chief," Smecker continued calmly, "Let me put you on a more secure line."

A moment later the FBI agent continued, "Alright. Sorry about that. Can't have the damn chain listening to all my calls."

"So, have ye heard anything?" Connor replied anxiously.

"Nada. Zip. Nothin'," Smecker replied, "He's disappeared off the map. I've pulled out on guys undercover to see if there's news of enforcement on the chain. Somebody talking about a little basement action, stuff like that. Everyone's turned up scott-didley."

"Yer sure," replied Connor, feeling his stomach clench at the news. Either Murphy was long dead, or the top men had put him in a hole so deep not even Smecker could reach it.

"Connor," Smecker's tone had taken on a consolitory nature, "I've got my best guys going on this. Hell, I've even got beat-cops checking every morgue all the way to Manhattan. There's absolutely no trace of you're brother...I think, I think you need to consider the very real possibility that he..."

"Now fuckin' stop right there!" Connor yelled into the phone, an irrational anger taking hold of him, "Murphy's alive. And he's goin' ta stay that way if I have any say in it."

"Connor," Smecker's tone was similar to that one would use with a daft child, "This work you and your brother do. You had to know eventually it would end up with one of you dead, or worse. It won't do you any good trying to deny that."

"Oh, what do you know about anything, you fuckin' faggot?!" Connor exploded, regretting the words the moment they left his mouth. On the the other end of the line, he heard an annoyed intake of breath, "God, I'm sorry...I..."

"It's alright," Smecker replied, masking his annoyance. He could barely imagine what the young man on the other end of the line was going through, "You're angry and upset. The hospital gave you some pills to kill the pain, right?"

"Aye," Connor replied sheepishly.

"Good. Take them. Get some sleep. Call me when you have your head on straight."

Without another word, Agent Smecker hung up the phone. Connor put down the receiver, stunned. He felt ashamed for what he had said. While he didn't agree with Smecker's life choice particularly, it didn't change the fact the Agent was a good man and friend. Taking in a deep breath, Connor reached for the pills Anna had given him. He never felt so out of control of his life before this point. Everywhere he went, there was always a plan, whether by work of God or man. And everywhere he went, there was always Murphy. His brother, his ground. They shared almost everything together. The little bastard could make him crack a grin or piss him off better than most anyone else. Without him here, Connor felt the world empty just a little bit. Dry swallowing a couple of pills, he laid down on the couch. A few minutes later, he barely noticed himself drift off to sleep.

* * *

**Later that night**

Anna turned on her bed grabbing the extra pillow to pull it closer to herself. She tried to force herself to sleep, but it wouldn't come. Part of the reason, of course, was having a murderer not more than a foot outside her door. The other was more personal. Turning over a second time, she decided she wasn't going to get any sleep that night. Sitting up, she ran her hands through her messy hair. Walking to the door, she opened it carefully. Immediately, her hand went to her mouth as she covered a snort.

Connor lay sprawled on his stomach on her couch. One arm lay across the top in a position that would be uncomfortable if he were awake. The other arm hung uselessly over the edge. Both legs extended over the other side, while his face remained half buried in the cushion. His coat lay crumpled on the floor beside him, right next to his boots. His t-shirt had rolled up slightly, revealing the still tanned skin of his lower back. Furthermore, Anna could make out the unmistakable sound of light snoring.

Shaking her head, Anna tried to ignore the slight regret that reared its ugly head as she passed the sleeping form. In another world or a different circumstance, she would be more than thrilled to have someone like Connor sleeping on her couch. Hell, she would have been more than glad to join them there or maybe offering a spot more comfortable. Though, she could probably do without the tattooes, but that was more personal preference than anything else. She had always had a thing for older men. They were more mature, for one, and tended towards being quieter and more protective. They were her silent guardians. Of course, she did have a thing for men with darker hair than Connor's, men a little taller, and...

"What the hell am I thinking?" she whispered to herself in the dark. She gave herself a mental kick in the head for the direction her thoughts had taken. Here she was, practically mooning after a self-righteous, murdering psychopath. Shaking her head, she decided to blame this and all the rest of her bad decisions on Nightingale syndrome. It was the only logical explanation.

Crossing the room, she grabbed a second glass from the cupboard and filled it with water. Taking a deep drink, she set the glass back in the sink and headed back to her room. She flinched as she accidentally stepped on a creaking board. Her eyes turned to Connor, but the Irishman simply shifted slightly and his arm dropped form the top of the couch.

"Oh...macho Murphy..." he mumbled in his sleep. Anna couldn't stop the small smile that crossed her face. She had to admit, though, he was rather cute when he slept. A little more innocent than when awake, like a little child. Of course, Manson was probably a cute little kid too. Shaking her head again, she walked to her bedroom door and quietly closed it behind her.


	7. Tempers flare

**Somewhere in Manhattan**

Don Marco Rossi, more commonly known as Uncle Marco to his associates, sat on the couch of his comfortable, skyline apartment in downtown Manhattan. In one hand, he held a bottle of Bud Select, in the other the obituary section of the Post. He didn't even notice as his assistant opened the door for another man until his visitor gave a slight cough. Looking up, Uncle Marco straightened, putting both items down on the table beside him.

"Ah," he said, "You made it. Please, sit."

He pointed to a plain wood chair right across from him. His visitor nodded, sitting down without so much of as a word. His aire was one of calm, cool, and perfectly complete control. Uncle Marco had never seen anything shake this man, and doubted anything ever could. At least, it better not. The cold demeanor, which projected cruelty bordering on insanity, was just the sort of thing someone in his visitor's line of work needed. Better yet, his visitor was rather young, no more than twenty-five at the most. His visitor's youth told Uncle Marco three things. One, the man was truly a sick fucker if he had mastered his craft at so young an age. Two, he was damn good at what he did if he survived so long. And finally three, he would probably last long enough to be of exponential use to the organization.

"So, how is it going?" he asked casually when the visitor made no move to speak.

"I'm doing as I've been ordered, Mr. Rossi," the young man replied, his tone equivalent to that of a computers, "I'm only here right now at your direct request."

"Yes, yes, I know," Uncle Marco said, sounding slightly irritated at the impertinence, "Would you like something to drink?"

The visitor shook his head.

"You're sure, perhaps a beer...a glass of..."

"No," the visitor replied firmly, "All I want to know is why you wanted to talk to me."

Uncle Marco glared at the other man, further annoyed. Then letting out a small chuckle, he quickly diffused his annoyance and sat back further in his chair. He knew better then to let someone like this guy get under his skin. For one, if he could do this now, there was nothing stopping him from pushing Uncle Marco further should they end up on opposing sides. A scenario Uncle Marco was no where near ready to deal thinking about.

"I can see you are a smart man," Uncle Marco said, "So I will get straight to the point. It's come to my attention that of the three Saints, you and your associates have managed to capture one."

"That is correct," replied the visitor.

"It has also come to my attention that you shot the other two men," continued Uncle Marco, leaning in closer to his visitor.

"This is also correct," the other man replied, his tone never changing.

"So you don't deny any of this?" Uncle Marco confirmed, feeling a sense of superiority.

"No," the man replied, "As far as I'm concerned, your information is correct."

"Then where is the second body?" Uncle Marco demanded.

For a moment, neither man spoke. Uncle Marco felt his sense of superiority give way to an uncomfortable emotion he was not quite familiar with. According to the men he had sent with his visitor to round up the Saints, the man before him had killed the oldest in the group with cold accuracy. Marco himself had even seen the body just before they had dumped it in a shallow grave across the river. There was, of course, the other Saint whom his visitor was supposedly working on making an example of right now. But as for the third, his men swore to Marco they had seen the guy fall behind the alley. But when they had come back for him and the other, he was gone. Suddenly, Marco realized his visitor was laughing at him.

"What?" he demanded angrily, leaning further of the couch to get in the man's face.

"You're worried about the third Saint," the visitor replied, quickly pulling himself back into a stoic posture, "Well, you needn't. He's been taken care of."

"So, he's dead?" Marco asked. His visitor frowned at the question.

"If you had wanted dead men," he said quietly, "I would have suggested you send you're best hit men. My job is not to kill, mine is to make an example of people. Make sure people remain to the correct codes of behavior. You hired me to make sure no civilians would get it in there heads to take after the example of these Saints. That is what I am doing."

"But is he dead?" Marco replied, backing up slightly. The visitor rose to his feet. Turning, he walked to the door and stopped.

"He is in good hands right now," the man said, "I have him exactly where I want him. Goodnight, Mr. Rossi."

* * *

**Anna's Apartment**

_Most of his leg and side had begun to go numb as Connor struggled to pull his Da's body into the alley. He shook his head, trying to wave off unconsciousness for just a little longer. Hands in pockets. Coins on the eyes. He fought back tears as he spoke his family prayer over his father, alone. Footsteps moved closer. Connor looked up. A woman walked into his field of vision. A waitress. He had no idea where the thought came from, but he let it go. Help. He needed help. Moved towards her. Hand on her shoulder. A scream. Now there was pain in his face. Eyes burned. Pain returned to his side, as he felt himself fall..._

"Sanctus. Espiritus. Redeem us from our Solemn Hour. Sanctus. Espiritus..."

Connor bolted up, letting out a groan as his side complained with the sudden movement.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he cursed under his breath, pressing his hand to his side. The metallic, gothic shite that had pulled him from sleep blared on, rising in volume as the singer repeated the same chorus again. Connor blinked, letting whatever sleep he had left drift off. Reaching up, he rubbed his eyes before running a hand through his hair.

Looking around, he felt a brief confusion as he realized he wasn't in the hotel room he, Murphy, and Da had rented for the past few days. The confusion faded quickly as his eyes fell on a picture on a kitchen shelf. Standing up, Connor shuffled to the wall, keeping a tight grip on the furniture around. Much more furniture than even two people really needed. Pausing at the wall, he slowly reached up and picked up the small frame.

Three people were in the picture, sitting on the very couch he had slept the night. The two on the right were a man and woman, obviously husband and wife. The man was thickly built, with dark black hair. His arm was slung almost protectively over his wife's shoulder. His wife appeared bony in contrast, with red hair and familiar green eyes. On the left of the couple sat a girl, somewhere between seventeen and eighteen. She wore a pretty, light yellow summer dress with a lower than should be allowed cut. She tried and failed to look as though she was embarrassed to have her picture taken, but her smile gave her away. In fact, all three were smiling in a picture of perfect contentment.

Connor frowned, placing the picture back in its place. It seemed such a waste for such joy to be taken out of the world. He thought back to the cheerless face that now belonged to the girl in the picture. What had happened from when this picture was taken to now?

Behind him, the track changed on the stereo. This time a heavy rock beat came out, with male vocals. Frowning in annoyance, Connor turned and shuffled towards the contraption. He hit the off button just as the woman's voice from before began to sing. Shaking his head at the music coming out these days, he returned to his spot on the couch. He had just barely gotten comfortable when the door to Anna's room swung open forcefully.

"What the hell is wrong..." Anna came out, eyes alight with furry till they fell on Connor, "Oh. You're awake."

It took Connor a full five seconds to stutter out, "A-Aye. I..."

He was fully aware he was making a complete idiot of himself speaking as he probably looked with mouth dropped open and eyes wide. But he would hardly call it fair considering the history of his sex, or the fact Anna had come barging out of her room clad in what barely could count as pajamas. Purple silk-like panties clung to her narrow hips just beneath a black tank top that likewise clung to the rest of her. He noted that beneath the tank-top her breasts were slightly larger than he had first judged, with the slightest cleavage due to the shirt's cut. Suddenly, he had the feeling as though someone were addressing him.

"What?" Anna demanded, confused by the blank expression Connor's face had taken. Following his line of site she glanced down at herself, "Oh Fuck!"

Her hands moved to cover herself as she gave Connor a murderous glare. Much to his disappointment, she bolted back to her room shutting the door behind her. When she reappeared, the panties were replaced by a pair of plaid boxers and a baggy red t-shirt that gave her no justice. The murderous expression had yet to leave her face. She approached Connor, hands balled tightly. Stopping just short of the couch, she opened her mouth but no words came out. Closing it, she raised one hand pointing a finger at him and opening her mouth again, only to close it again. Making a fist again, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"Did you turn off the stereo?" she finally asked, to furious to know what else to say.

"Aye," Connor said sheepishly. The brief image of Anna in her underwear flashed through his mind, but he forced it away, "How can anyone sleep with all that..."

"I didn't give you permission to touch my stuff, other than phone," Anna interrupted him, "And even that was only to call your mother. Who isn't generally someone I would usually refer to as a fagot, but then again, I barely know the Irish half of my family."

Connor felt a brief flash of anger at her statement. She had been listening in on his conversation. At least, his half of it. He doubted she realized to whom he was speaking. Restraining himself, he also considered the fact the apartment was her home and he was merely a visitor.

"So ye're putting me under some kind'a house arrest?" he demanded, pretending he hadn't heard the last half of the statement.

"You're free to go now, if you want," Anna shot back, "I'm not going to stop you."

"Oh, is that what ye're hopin' for, lass," Connor responded, "Make life miserable enough I'll leave on me own accord. Maybe fall down the stairs on me way out and break my neck."

"It'll be no skin off my nose," Anna replied, as Connor realized their voices had risen suddenly to shouting volume, "I'll have done what I'd said I do."

"And what would that be, now? Ye've yet to dump me on the street corner like ya said," Connor couldn't stop the words as they flowed out. For some reason, all the anger, frustration, and fears that had been plagueing him since his first talk with Smecker in the hospital broke out now (of all times) at Anna.

"Maybe," he said, " I should stay here, then. Till we find me brother."

"Then what?" Anna demanded, "Are you two going to make me your permanent hostage. Going to act liike the men you murder you self-righteous son of a bitch."

"Ya know what yer problem is?" Connor shot back, driving deep, "Ye really, truly jus' have a thing fer men, but that stick up your ass makes it impossible to get one till you bring 'im h-"

**Smack**

He saw the slap long before it even touched his face. It wasn't the strongest he'd ever been given, but the shock of it made him stop. His eyes met Anna's shocked ones. Her chest rose and fell with heightened breaths. Dropping her hand, she turned and bolted once again to her room as though the hounds from hell were after her. All Connor could do was sit there, staring at the door rubbing his cheek. It was only at that moment, he realized someone was knocking.

* * *

A.N.: Sorry (again) for the late chapter. Work is a pain. Anywho, special disclaimer goes to Within Temptation. I absolutely love "Solemn Hour", it's one of my favorite tracks. Anyway, hope you enjoyed, please review.


	8. Like the men

A. N. Yes, I am back. Many apologies for being late in updating. Work sucks. But here is the next chapter. Hope you enjoy. :)

* * *

Murphy sat against the wall of his basement prison cell, cradling the rosary the man had given him in his hand. He seemed unaware that the handcuffs holding him to the chair had been removed and the only bonds holding him now were a pair of handcuffs and shackles keeping his limbs together, giving him limited but able movement. He seemed unaware of the raw, red scraping along his knuckles and wrist from his initial outburst at what the man had given him. Scrapes from pounding at the door to get to the man who had killed his brother. He seemed unaware of the way the sharp points in the walls poked uncomfortably in his back. The same points he had further attacked in his anger, frustration, and drive to get to the man. He seemed unaware of the soreness in his throat from the screams and curses he'd called down on the man as he fought the boundaries of his cell. He seemed unaware that he was shaking from cold in the drafty basement.

Murphy turned the rosary back and forth in his hand, feeling only numb. He had no doubts that the rosary belonged to Connor. For one, both their rosaries had been specially crafted, given to them by their Ma on their confirmation. True, they weren't unique persay, but it'd be a rare day to find ones like them in the states. Furthermore, this rosary was shorter than his own. It was their way of distinguishing between the two.

Murphy felt something catch in his throat. Other than at home, he and Connor never removed their rosaries. They were a part of the men's lives, of their being. The only way Connor would ever let someone just take his rosary was if he was dead or unconscious. The man said he was dead. Drawing in a deep breath, Murphy opened his eyes. Getting on his knees, he put the rosary around his neck.

"And Shepherds we shall be. For Thee, my Lord, for Thee. Power hath-"

The door to his cell swung open killing the rest of the prayer from his lips. Looking up, he found himself face-to-face with Connor's murderer. The man stared at him curiously, as though he'd never seen a person in prayer before. Suddenly, Murphy felt. He felt the heat as the numbness inside him burned before rage. Rage he hadn't felt since the Russians had nearly killed both him and Connor. He was on his feet in a split second. The cuffs provided no hindrance as he barreled towards the man. Fire burned through him as he moved to make the man pay for what he'd done to his family. He moved so fast, but the man was faster.

Sliding to the left just as Murphy came up on him, the man raised his elbow and slammed into the back of Murphy's head. The Irishman crashed to the floor, caught off balance. Pain registered as his already bruised and cut limbs protested enough to take his breath away. Hands grabbed onto his neck, at the same time feeling a weight press into his lower back as the man straddled him.

"Realize this, boy," the man said, leaning in to whisper in his ear, "I never wanted to do this. But your stubborn pride brought it upon yourself."

Murphy felt a small pinch in his left arm, and then darkness consumed him.

* * *

Connor sat staring at the door, unsure of what to do. It was to early for the police to get there, even if a nosy neighbor had called about the shouting. Most likely it was the nosy neighbor, trying to play hero to an attractive, young neighbor. A second round of raps sounded, no louder than the first but slightly more urgent. Glancing over at Anna's room, Connor pulled himself to his feet. A wave of dizziness swept over him as he once again cursed hospital care. A surgeon could pull a bullet out of wound well enough, but what good was it if you felt worse after it was out then when it was in there?

Shuffling carefully, Connor moved towards the door. At the most, it couldn't hurt to see just who was at the door. Yet, he had barely made it passed the couch when he heard something whisk under the door. Freezing in place, his hand absently reached for a gun that wasn't there. Glancing back once again at Anna's door, he shuffled over just enough to be able to lean over the chair blocking his view. There, on the hardwood floor, lay what appeared to be three or four envelopes strewn all over. He could make out Anna's name on most of them and the emblem of some companies on others. His hand dropped as he realized the knocker was just the mail-man.

_Maybe I should stay here, then. Until we find my brother._

He didn't realize he had slipped to his knees in the chair. He just stared at the scattered mail as the heat of his words hit him. Had he really just threatened an innocent? Had he really...? Connor turned, sliding into a sitting position on the chair. His leg throbbed from his movements as he absently rubbed it. Cold swept through him, aggravating his leg. He had only felt this way once before. In the hotel room just after they had killed Papa Joe.

_How far are we goin' to take this, Da?_

It had changed then. Connor had known it had changed. Before, no innocents had been in danger. Well, they (mainly Rocco) had threatened "innocents", but it was only a means to an end. If he was honest with himself, though, Connor wouldn't have called the stripper or the hit-man's wife innocent exactly. Neither had merited death, perhaps, but they had at the very least participated or turned a blind eye to the sin surrounding them. The only time Rocco had dared threaten an innocent, he, Connor, had been more than willing to end his friend's life.

The courtroom had changed everything. Connor had tried to force himself to ignore it, but it didn't change the facts. Innocents had been threatened. Not only had they pulled a guns on the entire courtroom, but they had run the risk of a shoot-out. Despite taking the guns off the security guards, there had always been the chance one of Papa Joe's men could have had a gun on him. It was conceivable the entire room could have erupted into a fire-fight.

_Going to act like the men you murder..._

Connor closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. Anna's words echoed in his mind. No. No, it wasn't true. He and Murphy were nothing like those men. Those men killed and harmed others to further their own ends, whether for wealth or sheer pleasure. He and Murphy only killed to enact God's punishment. To protect the victims that might be. But that didn't change the fact he had threatened Anna, who (despite her animosity towards him) was still an innocent. Opening his eyes, he realized he needed to leave.

Forcing himself to his feet. He shuffled towards the door. Not even bothering to check the peep-hole, he opened it and stepped into the hall. The place was strangely lifeless. Not a sound made its way through the paper-thin walls. Clutching to the wall, Connor pushed himself towards the stairs. He didn't know where he was going. His feet moved of their own accord. As he made to the landing, though, his body finally gave out.


	9. Hospital visits

"You...are the biggest... idiot this side of the Hudson. You realize this, yes?"

The question registered to Connor the same time he began to feel a pair of thin arms wrap around him from behind. A hiss escaped him as the arms came in contact with his side, causing him to jerk away. Unfortunately, the motion did little to help the pain as his knuckles slammed against something woody and hard.

"Christ! Motherfucking!" he exclaimed, pulling his hand back, "What the hell do ya think yer doin', woman?!"

His eyes were open, glaring up at the outline of the offending party above him. Her face was blurred, though, but if he squinted he could just make out the usual frown on Anna's face. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, only to find it did no good. A general fog had seem to fallen over everything, rendering Connor able to see just the outline of his surroundings unless he squinted. Closing his eyes again, he let out an accompanying groan. Squinting only aggravated the headache quickly blossoming between his eyes.

"Connor?"

Something in the tone of her voice made him open his eyes again. He felt her left hand squeeze his shoulder as the sound of a relieved sigh escaped her. The warm breath passed over his face, smelling vaguely of mint. Squinting again, Connor saw that her frown had slipped behind a look of concern.

"Connor, you have to keep you're eyes open," ordered Anna, looking him over worriedly, "The ambulance will be here soon."

"What ambulance?" Connor demanded, closing his eyes despite her command. He turned his head, trying to get comfortable against the rounded edge of the stairs. He felt so tired.

"Connor!"

Anna's cry barely registered. The hardwood felt cool against his cheek. The darkness was so inviting. Connor could feel himself slip away, and didn't care.To say hospital rooms were becoming far too familiar for Anna was a bit of understatement. Shifting in her chair, she looked up privately wondering what cosmic being she had pissed off who put her in this predicament. A blank, white ceiling and the gentle hum of the air conditioning provided no answer. Sighing, she glanced back over at the source of her troubles. Connor lay peacefully in the bed, his head and side professionally wrapped. Thankfully, his tumble down the stairs had resulted only in a few bruised ribs and a concussion. The doctor had told Anna point-blank it could have been much worse.

Leaning forward, Anna rested her chin on her folded hands. She felt relief that Connor was once again safely stuck in a hospital bed, but not for the reasons she would have thought. While she was the first to admit she might have over-reacted to him turning off her stereo or seeing her in her pajamas, she would also be the first to justify her reaction. She still had no idea what force in the universe was convincing her to help him, and he certainly hadn't made life easy thus far. In fact, he'd seem to make it worse with his take off attempt. Anna frowned uncertainly, still wondering if his disappearance was an attempt to leave. In all honesty, she didn't know why Connor had left the apartment. She hoped against hope it was because he had enough humanity still left to try and clear out for the good of another human being, but even Anna wasn't cold-hearted enough to expect him to try and leave in his condition. The thin strings of general human compassion had masterfully dropped her heart into her stomach when she saw he had left the apartment. They had subsequently dropped her stomach when she saw him sprawled on the stairs. It was this excuse she could easily lie to herself with.

A sudden movement ahead of her caused Anna to sit up. She watched as Connor stirred slightly. A moment later, his eyelids opened revealing clouded blue eyes. Anna waited as those blue eyes scanned the room, while the body they belonged to remained tense. It was only when they fell on her that the pair relaxed.

"Welcome back," said Anna without tone, "As I'm sure you've guessed, you've landed yourself back in the hospital."

Connor glanced around the room again before giving her a slight nod and whispering, "Aye."

To Anna's suprise, Connor's eyes dropped as he turned away from her. Neither spoke for a moment. Anna let her hands drop, staring at him curiously. She wasn't sure, but she thought she saw something akin to guilt in his expression.

"So," she started, brushing her hands against her jeans, "Where exactly were you headed?"

At first, Connor didn't respond. Anna waited, inwardly flinching that she let her curiosity get the better of her. But refused to voice the real reason for her question. Nevertheless, Connor seemed to know what she was thinking.

"I wasn't goin' ta slit yer neighbor's throats, lass," he said dryly, still not looking at her, "If that's what ya were worried about."

_No, shooting's more your style, _Anna thought, but held her tongue. She had seen the effects fighting with him had. For the first time in her life, she was glad her parents had set up a trust for her to pay medical bills.

"I wasn't," she lied calmly. While it hadn't been the first thought on her mind when she found her apartment empty, it had crossed her mind he would try something drastic.

Suddenly, Connor turned to her. Anna felt her heart jump in her throat. The blue eyes staring back at her were absent, and not in the confused way a pain killer would induce. No, the eyes staring at her held no confusion. They held absolutely nothing. Then, just as suddenly, the emptiness was gone, replaced by a sad smile.

"Yes, ye were," he replied, looking away from her again, "You know, despite what ye may think o' me and me brother, we're...we are tryin' ta do God's work."

Anna just manage to bite her tongue and swallow the retort coming to mind, but only just. Instead, she stood up and paced to the other end of the room. Pausing, she glanced out the window.

"So where is he?" she finally asked.

"Who?"

She turned to see a genuinely confused expression on Connor's face.

"Your brother," she replied, "He's your accomplice isn't he. I was suprised he didn't attack me when we found you the first time."

Connor frowned at her statement, but shook his head and replied, "Murph's a little hot-headed, but he never hurt a woman. Ma trained us better than that. Besides..."

Anna was stunned to see a pained expression cross Connor's face. His eyes clouded, as though seeing an old memory. _Till we find me brother..._The ghost of Connor's words echoed in the back of her head. Anna felt a chill run through her as something clicked.

"Besides what?" she demanded, already having an idea what to expect.

"Nothin'," responded Connor, turning away, "Nothin' that concerns you least ways."

Anna opened her mouth to reply something to the effect that most anything that happened concerned her now but something stopped her. Letting out an annoyed huff, she stalked back to her chair. Taking a seat, she leveled a glare in Connor's direction.

"Fine," she replied coldly, "It's none of my business anyway."


	10. Truths revealed

"Okay, you ready for this?" Jeremy's voice sounded raspy on the other end of the line, as though he were driving through a tunnel.

"Yeah, " replied Anna, absently gripping the pen in her hand harder. She did a quick glance around before adding, "Shoot."

On the other end, she could hear a derisive snort followed by an exasperated sigh. There was a wrinkle of paper before Jeremy cleared his throat. Anna resisted the urge to role her eyes. Tapping her pen impatiently against the walll with with one hand, she pulled the phone from her ear and tapped it gently against the pay-phone's edge.

"You done?" she demanded.

"You know, you could show a little more appreciation," responded Jeremy, "I mean, I risk life, limb, and permanent ear damage to break into your apartment..."

"You have a key," interrupted Anna, "Now will you hurry up, I need to get back to Connor."

She could hear an irritated sigh before Jeremy replied, "Okay, the redial number was 202-555-7193 ."

"202...that's a Washington area code," Anna muttered, frowning as she wrote the number down.

"What?"

"Nothing," Anna replied, "Thanks, Jeremy."

"Sure," came the reply. There was a pause and then, "Just be careful, Anna, I'd hate to see you get hurt."

"Bye, Jeremy," said Anna, hanging up.

Closing her eyes, Anna turned and braced herself against the wall. Taking in a deep breath, she tried to ignore the subtle pains of guilt rising in her chest. If there was one person Anna could truthfully say she gave a damn about in the entire world, it would be Jeremy. She had known him since she was sixteen, about two years before...the accident. Everyone she knew had been understanding, of course, giving her the time and space she needed. Everyone she knew made sure she was capable of taking care of herself. Out of everyone, it had been Jeremy leading the charge.

Sighing, Anna pushed herself up. It wasn't that she was in love with Jeremy or anything. For her, he was the big brother she never had. At the same time though, she was almost certain his feelings for her were quite different. It had been basic puppy love at first, but when they reached the age of twenty-one, it had seemed to shift completely. Jeremy had tried even harder to spend time with her, practically to the point of pissing her off. She was almost certain that having Connor around was seriously going to send him off the deep-end.

As her thoughts returned to Connor, she gazed absently at the telephone hanging from the wall. A large part of her didn't want to think about whom Connor could be contacting in Washington, let alone why. The cold grip at the bottom of her stomach fueled her suspicions. Yet, there still was a small streak of curiosity, and the feeling of dread that came with Connor's reaction as to his partner or partners. Squaring her jaw in resolution, Anna reached over to grasp the receiver. If Connor wasn't going to tell her what was going on, this would. Saints, angels, or demons be damned, she was going to get some answers.

It took a moment for someone to answer. As she waited, Anna glance in the direction of Connor's room. Oddly, she felt a similar pain of guilt as she shifted the phone to her other ear. It felt almost like she was going behind his back, which in all honesty she was. The pain didn't last long as the click of someone on the line sound.

"Agent Smecker," a gravely, male voice sounded.

Anna froze. _**Agent** Smecker? Connor was in contact with a glorified cop?_

"Who is this?" the voice demanded, sounding irritated.

Anna jolted at the sound. Reacting instantly, she slammed the phone down, taking a step back. In her peripheral vision, she could see several nurse glance up at her in surprise, but she didn't care. Turning, she ran full speed towards Connor's room, skidding to a stop at the doorway. Forcefully throwing the door open, she saw Connor look up in surprise. Stalking over to the bed, she leaned till their eyes locked.

"Why were you calling an FBI agent on my phone?" she demanded, clenching a handful of the sheets on Connor's bed.

Instantly, Connor's expression of surprise melted. Eyes narrowing, he glared at Anna fiercely.

"What's this? Ye moniterin' me calls now are ye?" he demanded back, the fury in his voice barely contained. Anna opened her mouth to respond something to the effect that they were on her own phone she would, but stopped. Taking in a deep breath, she held it and released her grip on the sheets. Standing up, she looked back down at Connor.

"Look," she said, trying to keep her tone neutral but managing to speak through ground teeth, "For some faulty sense of reason I can't begin to fathom, I've been helping you on blind faith. Assuming my good charity is based solely on the fact you were injured when I found you, no one at the hospital has seemed to recognize you, or that you're partners have seemed to abandon you," she didn't fail to notice Connor stiffen, "That charity is rather quickly running out. So, you can either tell me why exactly I'm protecting you, starting with what's going on, or I'm going out that door and alert the medical staff who you really are."

Finishing her piece, Anna paused, waiting for Connor's reply. The light-haired Irishman did nothing but glare back up at her, as though not sure what to say. Turning his head away from her, Connor refused to answer. Letting out a frustrated sigh, Anna stepped back.

"Fine," she said, "If that's the way it's going to be."

Turning, she walked to the door. It was just as her foot crossed the threshold that she heard it. A small, barely audible mumble, but she was sure it had come from Connor. Stopping, she turned.

"What did you say?" she demanded. Connor refused to turn, though she saw a distinct slope in his posture.

"I said, they have me brother," he replied a little more loudly.


	11. Nightmares and memories

A.N. Yes, I'm back. I don't know for how long, but that's life. Sorry for not updating in so long! Hopefully this chapter makes up for it.

* * *

Anna seemed, if possible, less peaceful when she slept then when she was awake. At least that's what Connor decided as he watched the willowy form curl into an even tighter ball in the visitor's chair. This was the fourth time in at least twenty minutes she had shifted and still remained deeply asleep. As of right now, her legs were crossed at the ankles, with the knees pulled up against her chest. Her head hung loosely along her right shoulder as her right arm lay in the slight space between her legs and stomach. Her left arm, however, remained uncomfortably pressed against the chair arm and the small of her back. Yet the girl let out a slight snore, breathing out with the steady breath of deep rest.

Shaking his head, Connor turned to look out through the cracks in the window blinds at the nurses' station across the hall. A dumpy blond, probably around fourty sat at the desk concentrated on a computer screen. Sighing, the light-haired Irishman leaned back into the bed to look up at the ceiling. Blank, sterile white stared back at him, offering neither comfort nor hope. His hand moved absently to his chest only to feel bare skin and hair beneath the paper thin hospital gown. A sudden feeling of utter emptiness washed over him. Not having Murphy around was bad enough. Without him Connor was without his counterbalance, his equal. The perfect symmetry by which the two lived most of their lives was something neither had ever learned to live without. It was part of who they were together and separately. Without the rosary, though, Connor felt an absence almost as profound. It felt almost as though God had been cut off from his as well. Sure, he could still pray and go to confession but the simple comfort the little symbol represented was gone, possibly to never return.

The sharp intake of breath startled him, though he would never admit it aloud. Turning, he saw Anna had moved her left arm out from underneath her letting it hang limply over the front of the chair. A deep frown was etched into her face as her closed eyes clenched into an expression of pain or distress.

"No, no...can't..." she mumbled, her head turning away from Connor.

Connor sat up, wincing as his ribs rebelled against the movement. He could see Anna tense suddenly, her straight black hair now kinking into random messy angles. There was the sound of another sharp intake of breath. Connor froze, staring at the young woman in disbelief.

"Anna," he called out, concerned. It struck a strong chord in him to see someone in distress, even more if the person was a woman. Yet, he found himself helplessly unsure what to do. Anna's unpredictable temperament made it difficult enough to judge what sort of reaction would ignite from a certain action, and he doubted she would appreciate being woken up by him. He could call someone, but then they might be suspicious of the both of them and, though he didn't know intellectually why, he felt this was not a moment Anna would like anyone more stranger to her then himself to see. Finally, he just felt physically weak. An unconscious fear of collapsing again motivated his body in every sense to refuse motion, even at the selfish expense of another. Or, at least so he thought, until there came the sound of a light sob and Anna's body began to shake.

"Lass, Lass, ye have ta wake up!" Connor exclaimed, beginning to swing his legs off the bed.

It may have simply been the volume of his call, or perhaps the familiar uniqueness of his accent to her ears that finally woke Anna up. Blinking blearily, she could feel the faint touch of the tears falling on her face. Taking in a shaky breath, she lifted her arm, quickly wiping them away. She could hear the creak from Connor's bed and knew it was too late to shake off any sounds he might have heard. Not even bothering to hide the redness she knew had come into her face, she turned around uncomfortably to find the man with one foot out of the bed and the other midway in progress.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!?" she exclaimed harshly, sitting up. Connor paused, a look of stunned confusion passing through his eyes.

"What do ye mean, what am I doin'?" Connor responded, putting his second foot on the floor. He ignored the chilliness that raced up his legs in a way it never had before, "Yer were the one havin' the fuckin' nightmare!"

Anna clenched her jaw unintentionally. It drove her nuts breaking down in front of anyone, made her feel vulnerable. Some of if was natural pride derived of both her heritage and her general view of the world. Some of it came from something deeper. A feeling of cold swept over her, blood-chilling cold like that found in Hudson on a winter evening. She shut her eyes forcing the though far back into her mind. She hadn't cried when she was told they were gone. She hadn't cried when she put them in the ground. She had made herself strong for her own sanity and she wouldn't allow herself to be seen as weak by anyone. Especially not some insane vigilante who had no real right to even believe he had the right to become God's vengeance. Opening her eyes, she fixed Connor with an indifferent glare.

"Get back in the bed," she said, her tone calm and controlled despite the the slight waver she couldn't stop. Connor opened his mouth to argue, but paused. With a resigned nod, he pulled himself back into the bed, a flash of pain crossing his face. Laying on his back, he turned his head away from Anna.

Anna waited patiently until she saw the edges of his eyelids meet. Watching till his breath evened out from sheer exhaustion, she once again curled herself into the visitor's chair. She had no intentions of sleeping again, but rather let the familiar wariness of exhaustion collect around her as she fought to keep it at bay. It had been weeks since the last time she had dreamed about her parents or the river. She suspected it was probably the situation she was currently in which drove the remembrance, but she couldn't understand why. She had driven herself to bury her memories and the feelings associated with them, to keep a strong front for everyone. She refused to believe a brief moment of sentimentality could crush the walls she had built.

Against her own volition, Anna glanced over at Connor. She knew, of course, that she was lying to herself. There was one reason and one thing alone that could truly break through her walls and chill her like she was now. Fear. Connor's words had frightened her. His confession that someone was brave enough to attack the Saints, to challenge their legend. It scared her that someone had almost succeeded. She would never, could never condone what the Saints had done, but she wasn't blind enough not to understand the power behind him. From an analytical standpoint, the strength of their belief that they were in the right fueled their legend while the spread of the their story by the media increased their conviction. Society and the Saints fed on each other. It worried her more than she would admit the damage that could be reeked if the Saints were show to be beatable.

As the analytical side of her mind slowly broke the strength of her resolve and exhaustion ebbed against her, Anna yawned. Letting herself relax, she allowed the rest of her train of thought slide from her grasp. In particular, a sense of fear for her own person should the anti-Saints find out she was protecting Connor.


	12. Alone

He could barely breath. The very air coming in an out of his lungs hurt as it passed his throat back and forth. He resisted the urge to cough, because it hurt. His entire body began caving in on itself in a fight for dominance. His stomach twitched at the effort of bending down to smother the cough on himself. His arms twitched as they tried to hold the rest of him together. His throat constricted, vainly trying to help his stomach, and he could barely breath.

There were sounds coming from upstairs now. Sounds he hadn't noticed before, the taps of footsteps and the hum of pipes. One particularly loud footstep sounded just above him and he jerked involuntarily. His throat opened as air forced itself out in an attempt to scream but all that came out was a haggard cough.

Murphy turned over on his side, hacking as he placed a hand on the cement wall to steady himself. He felt so cold. The icy, stone-like walls of the room shot spikes of cold over every inch of his body, especially now in nothing but his boxers. Huddling in on himself, Murphy tried again to get a handle on his coughing. His stomach muscles twitched involuntarily as he shuddered.

Time was somewhat irrelevant to him at this point, but as Murphy closed his eyes he let his misery guide his thoughts once more to his brother. _Had Connor truly gone through all of this? _he wondered privately to himself, subconsciously adding the note he himself would have to had to been unconscious for a majority of Connor's torture. It seemed almost impossible that he would not have heard the continuous torments of his twin, or felt them in the way the pair had shared everything. Perhaps the man had killed Connor faster then he was killing Murphy.

Tears sprung, unbidden in Murphy's eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to erase them for the sake of what little macho pride he had. He was tired. He was tired and cold, sick and alone. The tears fell, some sliding past his lips where he could taste there salty bitterness. He had never cared if life or the world was fair since he knew it wasn't. Now, though, in the dark recess of his mind being slowly brought to light in the darkness of his surroundings, he felt the anger he had harbored for years at this injustice. Anger at his fate, both here and as a Saint. Anger at Rocco for dying. Anger at his father for pushing the bounds too far. Anger at God for not saving him and letting the man make a mockery of his faith. Anger at Connor for dying sooner while he was forced to linger.

Murphy opened his eyes. For the first time in his life, he was alone.

* * *

Jeremy didn't like it. When he had arrived at the hospital for the second time in so many days and found Anna quietly conversing with Connor, he felt something close to anger. Something he hadn't felt in a long, long time. It didn't help that the pair fell silent as he raised his hand to knock against the door frame. Connor's face dropped into an expression of hostile dominance. His blue eyes stared into Jeremy's brown ones, daring him to challenge it. Jeremy sneered back in response, his mind going to a darker place for the moment. That was until Anna turned around and smiled brightly at him.

"Hey, Jeremy," she said, as cheerfully as was possible for her, "Sorry to call your services in again."

"Not a problem," responded Jeremy, "Accidents happen."

He glanced over at Connor fixing the Irishman with a meaningful glare. Connor stiffened, his hands drawing into clear fist even beneath the thin hospital blanket. Unconsciously, Jeremy stepped back, aware that if the other man wasn't in the hospital bed he himself would have been. Anna frowned, sensing the hostility in the room. Following Jeremy's line of sight, she saw the fist beneath the blanket. Looking up at Connor, she fixed him with her own glare.

"Enough," she said coldly, "Jeremy is trying to help you, too."

"I'm sure he is," responded Connor.

"Connor," Anna's tone was dead serious, "If you want me to trust you, you have to trust me first. If you trust me, trust Jeremy."

Connor glanced at Anna, his blue eyes studying her for a long moment. The newly familiar anger flaired in Jeremy's chest. Then, to his surprise, the Irishman nodded. Looking up at him, Jeremy saw the dominance fall back to guarded familiarity. Internally, Jeremy sighed. Progress was becoming interesting.

* * *

A.N.: Yeah, I left this on a weird note. Sorry. But it'll make more sense later on.


	13. When the world starts crashing

The room was silent mostly. The tick of a clock and the taps from the keyboard providing the only break in the monotony. Connor shifted uncomfortably on the couch. His head hurt, but he could ignore that. Glancing over at Anna, he saw she was thoroughly engrossed on the content of her laptop. The soft glow of the screen filled in along her cheeks, casting shadows ne'er seen before. Beneath a pair of thin-rimmed reading glasses, her green eyes seemed lighter as they ran across whatever page she was reading. Her legs were tucked comfortably up underneath her and for a moment, the silence between them felt almost homely.

Closing his eyes, Connor shifted once again on the couch. Even with his eyelids down, he could picture Anna sitting in her chair. As his mind slipped farther and farther away into the abyss of the pain medication that had begun to take affect, that same picture began to take a new twist. Slowly, Anna was drawing closer and closer to him. The shadows cast by the laptop were still there, but with no discernable origins. She was beside him, long graceful fingers gently grazing over his temple...

He jerked awake without a sound. Glancing up, he saw Anna had remained where she was before, still staring into the bloody screen. Forcing his breathe to remain steady, he waited for his heartbeat to steady itself out as well. A quick glance down assured him he hadn't yet made a complete ass of himself, but it had been a close thing. Shaking his head, he could almost here Murphy's voice chiding him for being to easy.

_"One look," _He'd say, _"And ye be done fer before ye knew what ta fuck happened."_

_"Oh like you know a thing or two," _Connor replied in his own head, _"You, with your infinite experience. How's that seein' as ye were born after me."_

_"Oh, don't start that argue-" _He couldn't finish the rest of the imaginary conversation because at that moment, he felt his heart would stop from the pain. Pain that wasn't physical. Pain that no doctor (however close to God's ear he might think himself) could fix. Pain he hadn't felt since Murphy's and his second meeting with the Russians.

"Connor?"

He blinked, realizing his eyes had become moist without his consent. In the vague outlines of the world, he could see Anna's profile close to his. A hand reached out from the darkness, touching his arm. The contact startle him for a moment as he felt the couch lower slightly under Anna's weight. He could feel the blanket lift up from his waist to be gently moved onto his shoulders. She spoke softly, like one would to a frightened child or animal. Her hand never broke contact from him, running small circles along his shoulder and back. That hand was a barrier, the only barrier perhaps, bottling the rage boiling inside of him from breaking out. A subtle reminder that he was not quite alone in the world, even if Murphy was. Connor wept.

* * *

It wasn't long before Anna re-settled herself back in the chair that was far to large for her, despite her height. Connor had drifted off to sleep fairly quickly after the outburst, especially with the medication in his system. Glancing at the computer, she sighed leaning into the chair. The clinical side of her had already expected and prepared herself for it. Training along the therapeutic side of psychology, she had suspected the physical trauma would have forced his mind to isolate itself from the traumatic emotions associated with it, including those of being without his twin. She suspected, based on observation and things Connor had said, that the two men (already closely bonded as twins) had grown to depend on each other for a coping mechanism. With his injuries taken care of, Connor's mind found itself prepared to confront the emotional traumas but was without his mechanism. It surprised her it had taken him this long, but she assumed her assistance might have provided him a partial net.

She closed her eyes briefly. The other side of her, though, knew the clinical analysis was a bunch of bullshit. Fancy words did little to explain the raw weight of sorrow and loneliness. The crushing wave of feelings breaking through walls and walls built up, slamming you to your knees before you even had chance to catch a breath. It may very well all be a matter of coping mechanisms and supports, but when did the mechanics of the human mind translate to comfort.

Her eyes scanned her computer once again, waiting to see a message pop up on the screen. It struck her how deep in she was now. Her eyes strayed to Connor's sleeping form, her wrist aching from where he had grabbed it. _Maybe that's why,_ she thought to herself, recalling what had made her help him even when she found out who he was.

Because she knew how he felt....

* * *

The door opened with some effort, it's hinges rusted in the dank air. He hardly expected for the Saint to attack him, and his expectations were met. As light bathed the small room, no more then two feet across, he could hear the sound of shuffling as something tried to move farther back into the hovel. Glancing up from his efforts, his eyes fell on the mostly unclothed body of the Saint, still now, with his eyes closed and breathing shallow. A moment of brief disgust filled his mind as the form reminded him of others. Weak men, unfit to take on the mantels they felt they had a right to. He had made examples of them. Forced them into early retirement in a way, all while subtly demanding the proper men take over their responsibilities. Reaching down, he picked up the granola bar and flask of water he had brought with him. Entering the cell, he kneeled down beside the Saint. The young man's eyes fluttered open slightly, regarding him with something akin to hatred. Those same blue eyes.

He smiled, grasping the Saint's jaw. The body put up little resistance, deprived of food and water to long. Forcing open his mouth, he fed the Saint slowly and gave him the water in tiny sips. He was not a murderer. His task was to make examples out of men. Dropping the Saint's head, hearing it hit the concrete floor with a dull thud and a soft wimper, he turned to leave. Slamming the door shut, he calculated the time it would take before the Saint started to scream.

* * *

A.N. Boy, do I love writing dark chapters....well, you guys know the drill!


	14. Questions and Answers

"Yer' not goin'," Connor exclaimed, sitting up to quickly. A sudden wave of nausea ran through him as he grabbed the edge of the couch to steady himself. Anna looked over at him, her eyebrow raised in an expression of amusement.

"And how do you plan to stop me?" she replied, leaning down to grab her single strap backpack from behind the chair, "You can barely move."

"To dangerous," Connor responded, pretending he didn't hear her, "Yer' jus' a girl."

He didn't notice the way Anna froze, her jaw locking as her eyes flashed. In the back of her mind, she could hear the faint echo of similar words spoken sans the accent. Pulling the strap over her head, she readjusted it as she stood up fully.

"And you're still hurt," she replied calmly, pushing the memory aside, "Besides, Anthony is a good guy. He can tell me what I need to know and there's no danger in doing so."

"Really, is tha' what ya think," Connor responded with a derisive snort, "Ya think he'll jus' tell ya where they're keepin' Murph."

Anna turned, forcing herself to resist the bait. As she looked at Connor all she could feel was a sense of pity. He was standing, albeit shakily, beside the couch. His knuckles were white with the effort of keeping himself upright, and his shoulders were slowly rising and falling at a faster rate. He was still wearing one of her father's old t-shirts, though she had somehow managed to put his clothing in the washing machine. Even with the blood washed out, she couldn't justify making him wear the shirt again. Not with the bullet holes in it. Her father's shirt was huge on him,though, hanging down to about mid-thigh. It succeeded in not only making him descent but making him seem smaller, younger then he was.

"No," she replied honestly, approaching him. With a familiarity that surprised her, she took ahold of both his shoulders to gently guiding him back down onto the couch. Connor looked up at her, his blue eyes widened in surprise.

"At worst we won't find out anything," she said, "But Anthony's been a runner for the mob for as long as I've known him. If there's been a hit of some kind, he'll know."

"And how's that goin' ta help us?" Connor demanded, feeling the faintest disappointment as the warmth of Anna's light grip faded from his shoulders.

"Well, depending on who he's talked to, we can find out which Don made the call for your hit. That should give us an idea if your brother's alive or not. If he is, there's a remote possibility we might know where he's being.....what?"

"Nothin'," said Connor, looking down, "It's nothin'."

He glanced up to see Anna looking at him quizzically. He frowned, looking down once again to avoid her gaze. An uncomfortable silence filled the space between them.

"My dad was an accountant," said Anna, turning away from him, "He knew a lot."

Connor looked up in surprise. Anna had already crossed the distance the door and was reaching for the handle.

"What ta fuck was that suppose to mean?!" he exclaimed. Anna froze. From a distance, Connor couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw the glint of moister in the corner of her eye.

"Nothing," Anna replied, her voice almost normal, "Just trust me, Connor. I know what I'm doing."

She never turned to look at him as she opened the door and walked out All Connor could do was stare at the door, processing whatever had just happened. He had guessed Anna might have known something about the mob. It was hard not to depending on the neighborhood one grew up in and he could tell this was not one of the best. But he couldn't understand for the life of him what the bit about her father was about.

Leaning back into the couch, he finally let go of the edge. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he could feel the beginnings of a headache stretch along his skull. Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore the feeling of helplessness that had been clawing at him since the night before. Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead against his folded hands.

* * *

"You look tired, Angel," said Anthony, taking a sip from his coffee cup, "You sure you're alright."

Anna paused, staring blankly at the brown liquid in the Styrofoam cup in front of her. In all honesty, she was simply irritated by the affectionate nickname. However, she also knew Anthony had a weakness for women, particularly those in distress. Over the years she had cultivated all the tricks and mannerisms to fool Anthony when she needed to.

"Yeah," she finally replied, taking a sip of her coffee, "Just with my brother and all...."

"Oh, Jeremy mentioned you were taking care of him," said Anthony, taking another sip, "I didn't know you even had a brother."

"Mom and Dad had some trouble with him," Anna lied smoothly, "I guess not much changed after they died."

"That's too bad," said Anthony.

"Yeah, " replied Anna. A sullen silence surrounded the pair. Anna took another sip of her coffee as she side-stepped a man selling newspapers. As they rounded the corner towards the subway station, she glanced over at Anthony.

"So what's new with you?" she asked casually. She took a final sip of her coffee, grimacing at the taste of the grounds along the bottom.

"Not much, " replied Anthony, "The bosses are having me working overtime with the numbers."

"Oh," replied Anna nonchalantly. It was a system they had worked out over the years. Anthony had a history similar to Anna's. It was allowed them to get along where there day to day lives would suggest they shouldn't. Where Anna was driven to put her past behind her and move on, Anthony refused to let go. Over the years he had dug a niche for himself in the very organization which had hurt him, determined to destroy it from the inside out. In the end though, Anna had seen him slowly become what he hated most. As much as it bothered her, she had eventually come to the conclusion that all she could do was talk to him when he needed it and use what little information he gave her to stay clear of old grudges.

"Yeah, rumors are floating that something big is going down in the next few days," continued Anthony.

"Anything I need to be worried about?" asked Anna, keeping up the charade

"No clue," said Anthony, "But word is Rocci's got his hands all over it."

Out of the corner of her eye Anna could see him shoot her a look of concern. Closing her eyes for a brief second, she forced herself to keep her expression calm as she processed the information. Uncle Marco was the nasty son of a bitch who had ran the mob in Manhattan. Not all that bright, what he lacked in brains he made up in viciousness. Using the money he made in gambling and drugs, he managed to murder most of his competition while staying at least three contacts away from the situation. Unfortunately, the third or second contact usually ended up missing or dead as well. Eventually he had earned himself enough of a reputation that everyone played nice with him. Anna had learned that fact the hard way.

"I see," she finally said, opening her eyes, "Thanks for the heads up, Anthony."

"Anytime, Angel," he replied, honest concern coloring his tone. This time Anna smiled up at him.

"Well," said Anna, "I need to start heading back. My brother's probably going to be wondering where I'm at."

"Sure sure," responded Anthony, gently pulling her into a sudden hug. Anna froze at the contact for a moment but finally returned the embrace.

"Bye, Anthony," she said.

* * *

"Smecker."

A pregnant silence followed, broken only by the faint sound of panting. The agent for the organized crime unit frowned.

"Hello, who is this?" he demanded. This was the second unanswered call he had heard in the last few days and it was beginning to piss him off. It wasn't so much the lack of response but rather the threatening nature behind them.

"S-Smecker?" a hollow whisper of a familiar voice sounded faintly over the phone. The agent in question felt a cold chill run through him.

"Murphy?"

A steady tone was his only reply.

* * *

A.N. : So, sorry for the lack of updates, I've been pretty busy lately. But things are slowly becoming clearer, so stay tuned and please review!


	15. Unwelcome visits

"Connor, it was- Who the hell are you?!" Anna froze in the doorway. The man, who had previously been staring through the propped open slant of her blinds, turned towards her to reveal a thin, almost skeletal looking face, beneath a mop of brown hair. He was dressed in a plain, beige business suit tailored to fit. In fact, it almost concealed the firearm at his side were he not reaching towards her with an offered hand.

"This is Agent Smecker, Anna," Connor's voice suddenly sounded beside her, "H-he's here to help us."

Anna jumped, turning to see him slouched against the wall. His face was a shade paler then when she'd been home. He couldn't hide the grimace clawing its way across his face from her, nor the way he favored one side of his body over another. The stammer before only told her how much pain he was in.

"God damn it, Connor!" she exclaimed, their visitor momentarily forgotten, "Why the hell are you up?!"

Grasping onto Connor's arm on his uninjured side, she gently pulled him away from the wall. She felt his weight fall against her despite his efforts and she strained to lend him her strength. Neither of the two noticed the astonished expression on Smecker's face as he watched them. An untrained observer might misread the reaction as one of romantic interest, but certain details to the contrary came immediately to light beneath Smecker's steely blue eyes and sharp intellect. That wasn't to say the agent could not deny a bond evident between the pair, but what astonished him most was how unclear it was. While Anna's reaction was sudden and intense, her eyes focused between the arm she held and the couch that was her target. Not once did she venture a worried glance to Connor's face to see his reaction. Had she done so, she would have seen an honest appreciation behind a face determined not to show pain. Yet Connor's face lacked a weary resentment that would be evident had the two been lovers. A resentment stemmed from some neanderthal instinct in the primitive brain opposed to help from the perceived weaker sex.

"If your not to busy watching, you mind getting your ass over here and helping me?" Anna's harsh voice broke through Smecker's revery as he saw a flash of irritation in her eyes. The agent stared at her, frozen in suprise for a moment, before quickly crossing the room to Connor's other side.

"Don't touch him!" Anna exclaimed sharply, as he reached for Connor, "Let him hold on to you."

Connor and Smecker shared a tell-tale glance as Smecker offered his arm to the younger man. Grasping onto it, Connor closed his eyes. Smecker felt a tinge of sympathy for the young man as the three slowly lowered him onto the couch. Leaning back, Connor let out a slight gasp that would have been a whimper to any other man. Stepping back, the agent watched as Anna continued her nursing.

Though it hadn't really surprised him, Smecker found himself pained by his friend's state. Connor had always struck him as....well, stronger wasn't the right word for it. Self-assured was better sounding. Connor was more tempered by his experiences than his brother, and generally in better control of himself. He was a creature of routine, which Smecker admired most about the lighter-haired twin. Yet, it also made Connor more vicious in a violent situation. The same routine gave him a cold, unfeeling edge which he could assume and remove at the drop of a hat. Even thrown into a chaotic situation, Connor could make the chaos routine.

In the few conversations he'd had with the twins since their first collaboration, Smecker had learned neither knew which was the technical eldest. Based on what he knew of sibling psychology, Smecker had always privately thought (and secretly hoped) it had been Connor. There was a protective quality to Connor that Murphy ever had. While he would never say Murphy wasn't protective of the innocent, Smecker had seen him take an almost adolescent thrill to the dangers of their mission. Connor always seemmed to be the one figuring out how to clean up the mess. Now, though, it was Connor being more or less protected. Smecker feared more damaging to his friend, however, was his failure at protecting his father and brother.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, woman," Connor's usual round of cursing sounded, "I'm injured, not a fuckin' invalid!"

Smecker frowned, taking note of the half-hearted tone. However, he couldn't be certain if it was simply Connor's way of showing he was suffering or if it had to do with his hostess. Anna let out an irritated huff of air.

"You're flirting with a fine line there," she shot back angrily before turning to Smecker and continuing, "As for you, I'll ask one more time. Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?!"

Smecker's frown deepened, the only evidence of his lack of practice having someone challenge him. Sullenly, he offered his hand to Anna.

"Agent Smecker," he said, "I believe you called my office once."

Anna glanced at his hand before returning her gaze to his eyes.

"Yeah," she said, "Now how did you get in here?"

Smecker squinted at her as though expecting her to say she was kidding. Anna simply crossed her arms tightly and looked at him expectantly. Realizing his hand was still up, he let it drop to his side before glancing over at Connor.

"I let him in," the younger man said, looking up at Anna. Smecker looked back in time to see one of Anna's hands clench into a fist.

Resisting the urge to ask Connor where he had found this girl, Smecker started, "I called Connor to share with him some...."

"It's alright," said Connor, noticing the agent's hesitation "She knows."

Smecker nodded, before turing back to Anna and continuing "Some information on his brother..."

"He's alive," both Smecker and Anna finished at the same time. Connor stiffened, looking between the pair of them in surprise. Smecker fixed Anna with a questioning look.

"How do you know that?" he demanded. Anna felt her face reddened at the sudden scrutiny given to her by two pairs of blue eyes. Suddenly she wondered in helping a criminal, how far she had fallen from her _holier-than-thou _pedestal. Her eyes dropped to the floor.

"I have connections around here," she said, her voice barely over a whisper. She glanced over to see Connor giving her an unreadable look, "A friend told me that Rocci's been calling in favors recently. Another said something big was going down and Rocci's..."

"You mean Marco Rocci?" Smecker asked, interrupting her. Something stirred in the pit of his stomach as he looked at Anna.

Anna nodded, continuing, "He said Rocci has his hand's in it," she looked at Connor, "The bastard's a thug and as much as he likes a fight, he like to play dirty more. My guess is he had his boys grab your brother to make an example of him."

" And how would you know that?" said Connor, anger evident in his voice, " Did you help him plan it out, perhaps?"

"Connor," said Smecker.

"What? No!" exclaimed Anna, at the same time.

" It just seems ya know a little too much on the workings of the mob for a simple accountant's daughter," Connor continued, his eyes flashing, "What did yer da do, smuggle money for them? Rub elbows with...."

"Shut up," Anna's tone took on a dangerous coloring. She took a step towards Connor adding, "You know nothing you selfish son of a-"

"Okay, that's enough," Smecker took as step in between the pair, grabbing onto Anna's shoulders, "Connor, that's enough."

Anna glared at him, shaking away from him as she took a step back. Her glare returned to Connor who returned one in kind.

" Rocci ordered a hit on my dad, you bastard," she said, "My dad had gone to the feds on him and both he and my mom died on the Hudson on my eighteenth birthday."

Connor's jaw half-dropped as a feeling of guilt washed over him. Suddenly, many of the odd pieces surrounding Anna's life begain to make sense.

"A-Anna...I...I'm...." he stuttered, trying to find the words to make things righ, knowing there were none.

"Forget it," she said, "The only criminal's I've aligned with are a pair of delusional vigilantes and dirty cop. If none of you want my help, then get the fuck out of my house. And let the door hit you on the way out."

With that she turned, storming into the kitchen. A chilling silence remained in her place.

* * *

A.N. : So yeah, sorry if this chapter sucks. Smecker is a hard character for me to pin down and since we're almost done I'm trying to tie up some loose ends. Anyway, so I'm planning a sequel for this story since there's no way to get all the bad guys and save/heal Murphy in the same story. So, I hope you'll stay tuned and enjoy. Reviews are always appreciated.


	16. Alliances are Formed

A.N. Yay! Messa back. Finally. Sorry for the long wait, the plot bunnies finally made it through. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

She felt worn, used-up, tired. An emotional numbness spread through her without the euphoric lack of physical sensation. She glanced down at her hands, still red from the beating they had taken against the unyielding steel of the refrigerator door. They stung a little in the open air. Her lips pulled up in a sardonic smile as she leaned her head back against the very same door. Her face was moist along her cheeks but she didn't have the energy to wipe them. Her throat burned in the aftermath of her savage screaming.

It was only then the kettle began to whistle.

Glancing up at the offending object out of the corner of her eye, she felt a slight tremor in her shoulders. The tremor built into a twitch and the twitch became a jerk. Another jerk followed the first, then another. Anna found herself chuckling. The chuckling grew louder, quickly changing into full-blown, almost maniac laughter. Doubling over, Anne wrapped her arms around her stomach, closing her eyes against the force of the sudden mirth. She knew somewhere the clinical side of her mind was evaluating her breakdown, curiously unable to properly diagnose it. Frankly, it didn't matter. It just felt good to laugh.

She was vaguely aware she was crying again as she pushed herself up to her feet. Still giggling, she rubbed her eyes and grabbed hold of the kitchen towel hanging off the edge of the counter. Carefully, she lifted the steel kettle off the stove, simultaneously turning off the oven. Setting the kettle on the counter, she stared at it with a dry smile crossing her face.

Her mother had always put on tea whenever she was upset. She claimed it was some her mother had done and Anna's great-grandmother before her. Anna started doing it about six months after her parent's deaths, at a time when she couldn't sleep and didn't want to watch TV. There was an odd comfort to the ritual, allowing the mind to wander and hide while the hands ran on muscle memory. She hadn't even realized she had put the kettle on before she lost it; screaming and slamming her hands against the refrigerator in a futile attempt to destructively vent her feelings.

She wasn't even sure what had set her off. Maybe it was as simple as having her private home violated by a government official, particularly one that was helping the saints. It was far more convincing evidence then just a voice on the other line. While she had no illusions that justice was incorruptible, the visual evidence was jarring. After all, seeing was believing. It could have been the insinuations Connor made or the fact her information was apparently useless. The thought struck her as funny now. Her outburst being a childish plea for attention or defense. Perhaps it was Connor himself. Her initial dislike and distrust of him still remained set in a constant battle with her sympathy. The battle growing worse as she began to understand what made him tick and realizing (particularly with Rocci's involvement) that she and he were not so different. She was incapable of throwing stones now, acknowledging for the first time that she understood why the Saints did what they did. She hated herself for it.

"Miss O'Reilly?" Smecker's voice called from beside her. Glancing over, she saw the FBI agent standing warily at the kitchenette's entrance. His cold eyes were studying her, warmed only by the slightest bit of concern.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice sounding thick to her own ears, "I'm fine now."

The look on Smecker's face told her he didn't believe it. Wiping the last remnants of moisture from her face, she turned from him to open the cabinet door.

"Tea?" she asked, pulling down the box of tea bags and glancing over her should. Smecker shook his head, stepping away from the door. His eyes still held a cautionary concern but his stance was no longer weary. Anna reached up a little higher to pull out a chipped, yellow cup. Pouring the water into the tea kettle, she gently put one of the bags in, bobbing it up and down in the water.

"You have my condolences," Smecker said, breaking the awkward silence. He watched the young woman stiffen and noted she said nothing. While the outburst had caught him as well as Connor off guard, he was already well aware of Anna's history:

_On the evening of March 26, 2003, Emergency Services were called to the scene of a car accident. The O'Reillys' vehicle had been run off the road into the Hudson. Mr. O'Reilly, an FBI informant, had managed to pull his eighteen year old daughter, Anna out of the water and subsequently tried to go back for his wife. The temperature and currents worked fatally against him, and the bodies of both Mr. and Mrs. O'Reilly's were eventually recovered. Anna survived with minimal injuries, while the tragedy was deemed an accident by local authorities. The case had been flagged due to the Mafia connections but, without direct invitation, Smecker and his department were unable to take up the investigation._

"Me too," Anna finally replied quietly. Picking up the mug, she took a small sip before turning towards Smecker. The agent backed up further allowing her to pass by. Walking back into the living room, her eyes fell on Connor. The Irishman was sitting on the couch, though by the strain on his face it would have been better if he were laying on it. Anna wondered if he was forcing himself to sit up as punishment. Clearing her throat, she decided to find out.

Connor's head jerked in her direction immediately. His mouth opened and closed again, as though he were going to apologize but wasn't sure exactly how. His blue eyes were clearly clouded with confusion.

"What the fuck was that?!" he finally exclaimed. Anna sighed, slightly bemused by his lack of subtlety. Walking in front of him, she took a seat on the chair.

"None of your damn business, Connor," she replied, though not coldly. She caught sight of Smecker entering the room. The agent was watching the pair now, anxious for hostilities to break out again.

"It's very well my damn business," Connor exclaimed, "Wot, with ya yellin' at-"

"Connor," Anna's voice didn't raise in pitch, but it certainly took on a darker tone. Connor's voice died away as he looked at the young woman. Smecker noted, however, Connor's expression was not one of anger. Rather, he looked as though he were trying to simply understand.

"I'm sorry," Anna said, "I shouldn't have yelled at you like that."

Smecker smirked, seeing Connor's expression rapidly change to one of shock. The younger man seemed entirely taken aback by the apology, as if he had never been given one before.

"Y-yer forgiven," he stammered, crossing himself absently for no real reason at all, "I'm sorry too. I never knew your Ma and Da...."

"I never told you," Anna interrupted him, "And for good reason. It was none of your business."

Connor paused, processing the statement for a second. Nodding silently, he seemed to accept it for what it was.

"But now that you know," Anna continued softly, looking into her steaming mug, "It seems we have more in common then we first realized."

She paused to look up at Connor.

"I can't condone killing Rocci," she said quietly, "As much as would love to see that bastard hung from the highest tree. I can't condone taking the law into my own hands," her gaze drifted briefly to Smecker before returning to Connor, "But I know what sort of man Rocci is and what he's capable off. I can't in good conscience stand by and not help you find your brother. So, I'm going to ask you. What are we going to do about this?"

* * *

"Please.....please....." Murphy's voice cracked, just above a whisper. He lay on the grey concrete floor, shaking uncontrollably. The lights were far to bright after so long in the darkness. Even shutting his eyes didn't help. His senses were overloaded beyond what he could bear, "Please, no more."

He felt a shadow pass over him and curled tighter in on himself, afraid of what was coming next. His prayers for death had gone unanswered because there was no one there to listen. He felt long, cold fingers press into the small of his back, causing him to shudder more. Lazily, the fingers drifted up along his spine, tracing their way slowly across his throat, and finally coming to rest against the side of his face.

"No more," a familiar male voice repeated in English, "No more."

Murphy risked opening his eyes to glance up in his torturer's face. For a moment, he almost believed he saw a glimmer of compassion in it. Of course, that was before the fingers lifted and the back of the man's hand descended soundly against his cheek. Murphy whimpered, his head slamming into the concrete floor. The man grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him up.

"Open your eyes," he ordered. Murphy kept them close.

"Open them!" the man repeated shaking him. This time Murphy man was looking at him as though he were a bug on display. Murphy stared back at him, fighting the urge not to look away or to give in to his fear. He didn't know how, but the man had managed to break him.

"Someone's coming to save you," the man said, his voice slow and deliberate so Murphy heard every word, "When they get here, I want you to kill them."

Murphy blinked. _Someone was coming for him? What kind of bullshit was that? There's was no one else....everyone he'd ever cared for had been killed by this man. Everyone except Smecker. _The thought sent a chill down the young man's back. He could still remember the sound of his friend's voice on the other side of the phone line. It hadn't been an illusion, it had been a ploy. This....this man wanted him to kill Smecker?

"No," he said, horrified, "No."

The man smirked. Leaning in closer to Murphy, his grip tightened painfully.

"Yes, you will," he said, his breath hot and stinking, "Because if you don't, I'll put this person through the same shit I put you through."

The chill grew into a tight knot in Murphy's stomach. He believed the man instantly.

"And I'll make you watch as I break him," the man continued, "And then I'll make you watch as I kill him, just like your dear old Da. All because you weren't man enough to deliver him. Do you want that on your conscience before I send you to hell?"

He let go of Murphy, allowing the beaten man to sink weakly to the floor.

"However," he continued, "If you do as I ask, I'll release you."

Murphy looked up at the man before him. He didn't have the strength left to lunge at him, despite his physical freedom. The man had ensured that by the starvation and beatings. Yet what the man was giving him a chance to escape all this, even though the price....it was outrageous and wrong. He couldn't just take a life, even to save his own. Especially if that life might be that of a friend. However, he had no illusions the man wouldn't fulfill the other half of his promise. He had capture Murphy after all, and killed both Connor and their father. He had robbed Murphy of everything but his life, and was giving him the chance to save that and what was left of his sanity. Murphy was certain the other side of the man's deal would take both of those away. In either case, Murphy realized, there was no way to receive or deserve absolution. He would be damned for the murder of an innocent or he would be damned and tortured for doing nothing. It was merely a question of which one would weigh heaviest on his conscience.

Looking up at the man, he nodded slowly. His soul be damned, he couldn't live with himself if he allowed another human being to go through what he just had. The man smiled, almost affectionately at him. The last thing Murphy felt was the warm scratch of a wool blanket.

* * *

As always, reviews appreciated.


	17. and Resolutions Pronounced

A.N. Yep, I'm cranking out the chapters this week (crosses fingers that it will last). Just a little note, this was probably my favorite chapter to write, so I really really hope you enjoy it! As always, reviews are appreciated.

* * *

The fading edge of the setting sun cast a ruddy glow along the edges of the neighboring buildings, reflecting straight through the narrow, double window of Anna's apartment. Eyes closed, Connor leaned back further in the couch, enjoying the soft warms as the lingering rays trickled against the back of his neck. Bending his head forward slightly, he allowed more skin to be exposed.

Opening his eyes, he glanced over at the stereo's digital clock. Anna had disappeared off on a rare quest to pick up Chinese from the only shop Connor had ever head of which didn't deliver. Though she said it might take a while, Connor noted she had been gone for fifteen minutes now. In spite of himself, he felt the corners of his mouth tighten in a dark frown. Shifting slightly, he turned his back on the stereo in an attempt to ignore the cause of his sudden rush of worry. Propping his feet up, he glanced at the door expectantly. The red sunlight cast a pinkish hue on the room's otherwise white furniture.

Connor shuddered involuntarily, closing his eyes again. He found no peace as images assaulted him, brutal and inescapable. Water dripped from an unseen faucet, splashing into a pool of pinkish fluid. Blood smeared across too pale skin, it's coppery smell almost tangible in the surrounding air. Hands and fists smack again him as his own remained bound to a chair behind his back, utterly useless. The fists soon changed into slats of wood and the pain grew, if possible, worse. The sound of steel and ripping fabric filled his ears as darkness descended around him. Cold and hot flashed across his skin intermittently accompanied by unpredictable thundering, which shook his body as it hurt his ears. Then, there was silence, a flash of light, and screaming.

"Connor! Connor! **Connor!**"

Conner jerked up, grasping the hand on his shoulder with bone breaking strength. A loud, satisfying whimper sounded and he glanced over at his would-be-attacker. Instead, his eyes locked on Anna's, currently filled with an odd mixture off pain and annoyance.

"You mind letting go?" she demanded through gritted teeth. Connor's brow furrowed and he glanced down to the the tips of her fingers, pale in comparison to his own darkened skin, sticking out from the encasement of his left hand.

"Connor," her tone was gentler this time, but no less authoritative, "Let go. You were having a nightmare."

Connor blinked, unconsciously releasing her hand. Anna pulled back instantly, cradling the limb protectively against her body. After taking a second to painfully flex her digits and deciding no permanent damage had been wreaked, she looked down at him with a worried frown.

"You alright?" she asked, watching as he sat up and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"Fine," he replied gruffly, not meeting her gaze. He slumped over, burying his face in his hands. The dream had come on him so quickly, he hadn't even realized he dozed off. Even now it held power over him as phantom pains ached in startling contrast to the sharp throb of his actual injuries.

He barely noticed Anna leave the room, carrying the dropped bags of Chinese into the kitchen. He glanced up only at the sound of rushing water, adrenaline kicking in as he tensed at the sound. A minute later it was gone and Anna emerged carrying a small, clear cup of water. Taking a seat next to him, she leaned over with the cup raised to his lips. Her free hand hovered just next to his cheek yet didn't touch.

"Drink this," she ordered, her tone calm and detached. Connor glared at her.

"I'm not a fuckin' infant," he responded indignantly, "I don' need ta be babied."

Anna stared right back at him, unphased.

"Look at your hands, Connor," she replied, her voice still containing a mystical detachment. Connor balked but glanced down anyway. To his surprise, he saw that they were shaking.

"Now drink," said Anna when he looked back up at her, "Because I really don't want to clean up the mess if you spill."

Connor smirked at the half-hearted attempt at humor. Bending forward slightly, he took a sip. The cool liquid was a welcome relief to the back of his throat. Pulling up, he nodded at Anna and settled back down on the couch. There was a momentary pause as she leaned over to put the glass on the coffee table.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked quietly.

"No," Connor replied. Anna nodded, settling back in the couch as well. Connor didn't know why, but he noticed she kept a strict couple inches between them. A small touch of guilt wriggled in his stomach.

"How's yer wrist?" he asked when the silence became overwhelming.

"It's alright," Anna replied casually, "How's your....everything?"

Connor chuckled slightly, glancing down at himself.

"Not as bad as it looks," he answered, "I'll be up an' out o' your hair in no time."

There was a slight pause before Anna replied softly, "Unless we find your brother first."

Connor blinked, whipping his head around to stare at her incredulously.

"Wot do ya mean unless we find me brother first?" he demanded.

"Well," Anna replied, looking at the opposite wall, "Knowing Rocci, I doubt your brother is going to be in any shape to take care of himself and I doubt you could do much better."

Connor had the nerve to look offended as he replied, "Ye don' need to be helpin' us, lass. Ye done more then enough already."

A long pause followed the statement. Connor fidgeted in his seat slightly, unsure if he had said something wrong or not.

"The first week after my parents died, I thought it had been a simple case of hit and run," Anna spoke up suddenly, "The second week, his office mailed me his stuff in a box, including some files labeled private. They were Rocci's books, kept off-line so they were easily destroyed. The name sounded familiar to me so I did some looking around. That's how I met Anthony and within an hour he pretty much had me convinced what had really happened to my parents."

She paused a moment, swallowing slowly.

"My dad was a good man," she continued, "He was careful. To this day I still don't know how Rocci found out he leaked information to the Feds," she looked over at Connor, and he was surprised to see her eyes not only dry but burning, " It took me three years to quell the desire to kill the son of bitch. Three years."

"What....what made ye change yer mind?" Connor asked quietly, surprised at the direction the conversation had turned, "Ye have ev'ry right ta hate him....ta deserve justice, vengeance...."

Anna glanced away, smiling sadly.

"To Me belongeth vengeance and recompense; their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste. For the LORD shall judge His people, and repent Himself for His servants, when He seeth that their power is gone, and there is none shut up, or left'," she turned back to him, "Deuteronomy 32:35-36. Father Kaine had me look up that passage when I confessed to wanting to kill Rocci. I'm eternally grateful that he did. I still hate Rocci, Connor. I always will. But I have to have faith he'll get what's coming to him according to God's ordnance, whether it be in this life or the next. It's all the faith I have left."

Connor blinked, staring at her completely stunned. He had never really considered Anna would open up to him like that. There was no anger, maliciousness, or false piety in her voice as she spoke. In fact, the entire monologue had been delivered in an almost weary fashion. Not weary in the sense of a preplanned recitation, but rather an unburdening and sharing of a crushing load. Combined with the fact Anna was actually religious, Connor had no idea what to say.

"Why are ye tellin' me this?" he asked softly.

"Because I just realized it today," replied Anna, looking away again, " I've spent the last couple weeks wanting to hate you because I saw myself in you. I know that what I say won't change your mind about this 'holy mission' of yours; and I'm selfish enough to not want to go to jail, so it's not like I can use the cops to stop you. But Father Kaine was there for me when I needed it most. Knowing what I know, it would be wrong for me to turn my back on you now."

For a long moment, silence reigned in the room. It was heavy but not in an uncomfortable way. Rather, it was simply filled by Anna's words and the meaning behind them. There was still so much both of them could say, but neither knew where or how to begin. They even questioned if it was worth making the effort at all. Eventually, however, the weight became too much. Without another word, Anna stood up and walked off. Connor watched as she made her way to her room door, closing and locking it behind her. Sighing with relief, he stared at the door for a while, trying to process what had just occurred. The Chinese sat on the counter, entirely forgotten.


	18. Friendships tested

Smecker was worried. Pulling into an open parking space on the second to top floor of his hotel's parking garage, he killed the engine sharply. Running a hand through his hair, he sat back int eh driver's seat and glanced down at the packet of smokes wedged in the far cup-holder. Pulling out a cigarette, he picked up the beige lighter beside the pack. He could never bring himself to use a car's inbuilt lighters so he always kept one on hand. He felt his hands shake in an uncharacteristic bout of anxiousness.

Taking in a long drag, he exhaled slowly, forcing his mind to slow down and do what it did best. Someone had gone after the boys and he had been unable to stop them. The thought alone was enough to make his blood boil, but especially so because the man who ordered the hit was a fucking idiot. _Well, not so much of an idiot now? _thought Smecker to himself.

The federal agent had met Rocci once before during a murder investigation. He remembered the Italian crime boss being an attractive looking young man with olive skin, dark neatly combed hair, and well-manicured hands, signifying him as a member of the mafia hierarchy's yuppie generation. As good looking as he was, however, Smecker found him an insufferable ass only barely intelligent enough to keep his head above water. So how the bastard got around him he had no idea. Smacking the wheel in frustration, he inhaled sharply through his nose.

Not only had Smecker taken the responsibility of selecting targets for the boys and keeping the authorities chasing their tails, he also kept an eye on the Mafia's reactions to the hits. With the information and connections garnered by his position, Smecker could accurately judge the mob bosses moves and steer the boys clear of unsafe situations. After all, though they may never admit it, the MacManus brothers were still human and still fallible. It was his job to protect his boys.

He paused a moment, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. When had Connor and Murphy become his boys? Was it when he, Dolly, Duffy, and Greenly swore and oath and abated the twins in taking the law in their own hands? Had it been when he talked to the priest and "seen the light", metaphorically speaking? Or had it been the moment he to took the mobster's life, dipping his hands in the same fount of blood as the brothers?

Smecker had never considered himself a good man. Yes, he served the cause of justice but that was only because he understood the cost of lawless chaos. He had killed before he met the Saints. His hands had been permanently stained with blood. It was why he held others back with sarcasm and biting insults. he disdained owning anyone or being likewise owned and know. He knew he didn't deserve it.

Shaking his head, Smecker felt a flare of annoyance at himself. Now wasn't the time to indulge in self pity. He needed to identify the unknown player in this game. Rocci was nowhere near smart enough to organize or successfully pull a hit like this off on his own. However, the mobster was smart enough to employ people who were, provided they were either terrified of him or cared more about his money then his position. Smecker was inclined to believe the later of the two options was responsible for the attack on the Saints, making his job all the more difficult. Those sort of men were hard to find when they didn't want to be found. Snubbing out his half-smoked cigarette, he got out of the car and headed towards the elevator. He need to make a few phone calls.

* * *

Anna was on the phone in the kitchen when Connor woke up. Blinking, he sat up on the couch, stretching gingerly. While still sore, he was almost surprised to wake without the encumbering sensation of absolute pain throughout his body. His head no longer throbbed and the bruises along his arms from the fall were beginning to fade. Gently pealing up his t-shirt, he saw a similar yellowing along his ribs, though his side still ached fiercely at movement. Gently, he brushed a finger just over the bullet wound, noting the tissue was finally beginning to scar. Lowering the shirt, he pulled up the leg of the too long shorts and, awkwardly bending his leg, examined the second bullet wound. That too was beginning to heal over, especially with the stitches removed during his second hospital visit. Dropping the pant leg, Connor had to admit the hospitalization led to far prettier looking scars then those formed by the cauterizing he, Murph, and Rocco had attempted after their shoot-out with Da.

Thoughts of Rocco, however, brought with them a wave of grief and guilt. Neither twin was capable of forgiving themselves for the parts they played in their friend's death. Murphy believed himself at fault for encouraging the Italian to join them against Connor's better judgment. However, it was Connor's plan that had gotten them caught and dragged down to the basement.

Connor closed his eyes, feeling his jaw lock at the memory. Even now, the shot echoed in his mind louder than his own screaming had been. The thud of a body falling against a blood soaked cement floor and Murphy's sobbing curses could never match the volume of Rocco's dying rasp to Connor's ears. The desperate gasps drowning his words of encouragement, even as his lungs drowned in their own blood.

Connor opened his eyes. Rocco's dead face had been replaced in his imagination with Murphy's. His twin's features lay bashed to an unrecognizable pulp over a body riddled with bullet holes. The only recognizable feature was a pair of blue eyes, paler then he last remembered them and suffocated in a rheumy glaze.

"You alright?"

The question startled Connor out of his stupor. Glancing up, he saw Anna leaning against the door frame of the kitchen. Her eyes were narrowed in an expression of concern. Connor rubbed his face, forcing the visions to the back of his mind. It wouldn't do anyone any good worry of what could be. Yet he was incapable of burying the guilt and shame burrowing a hole through his stomach on its way to his heart. He'd failed his brother, his twin. While he had been treated to the lap of luxury, Murphy was in....Connor didn't even know what his brother was in. All he knew was that as he himself grew stronger the bonds he sensed, though not always acknowledged, forged by blood and companionship were growing weaker. Every day, he was becoming more and more aware of the distance between himself and Murphy, the mere idea of it frightening him more then thoughts of hell. Because in that distance, he wouldn't have time to save him or be saved himself.

"Aye," he lied, "Jus' a little sore is all"

"Let me have a look at you," Anna replied, placing the wireless receiver down on the part of the counter jutting into the living room. Crossing over to Connor, she took hold of his injured arm and looked over it appraisingly.

"You're a fast healer," she remarked, moving her hand toward his leg. She shot him a quick warning glance, daring him to make a sex joke. Connor, however, stiffened slightly, inexplicably uncomfortable with the examination. Thankfully, Anna didn't make him pull up his shirt.

"And you're a bad liar," she added, gently prodding the bullet wound. She felt a sense of relief seeing that it was beginning to heal over. For one, it mean she hopefully wouldn't have to pay anymore medical bills and it meant Connor was healing. While she still disliked the Irishman's actions and way of thinking, her revelation the day before made her realize there wasn't a point to holding on to the prejudice. When it came right down to it, Connor was someone in trouble and that was something she couldn't turn her back on, no matter what she thought of him as a person.

Yet that train of thinking led to its own confusing paths. In the past three weeks she'd known Connor, both in and out of the hospital, she had found he wasn't a bad person. She couldn't sugar-coat his actions and call him misguided, but he wasn't evil entirely. At best, she thought of him as grey. He, Smecker, his brother, and whoever else was helping them had a foot in both camps. They didn't flirt between the lines of good and evil, they were the line.

"How d'ye mean?" Connor asked, an eye brow raising contemplatively. Anna leveled an incredulous look at him.

"A tough guy like you?" she said, "I doubt a little soreness is going to make you look like someone kicked your favorite puppy. I mean I cou-"

"Whats this about kickin' puppies now?" Connor interrupted her, looking slightly shocked. Anna smiled a moment before her expression sobered.

"I meant...."she paused as though considering how best to phrase what she wanted to say, "I mean, you look like something's bothering you and I doubt it's got anything to do with your injuries."

She met his eyes as she spoke, not daring to look away. The pair stared at each other a moment before Connor broke first. Turning with a scowl, he reached over and picked up the glass of water that had been left overnight. Lifting it to his lips, he paused.

"What was yer phone call about?" he asked, changing the subject rapidly. Anna shook her head unsurprised.

"Work," she replied, looking away, "I was suppose to go in today, but with everything...I called in sick."

"What?!" Connor exclaimed, "Ye shoul'nt have done that. No' fer..."

"If you say for me, I will kick your ass," Anna interrupted sharply, "Because I'm not leaving you here by yourself."

"Ye still need ta support yerself, lass," Connor replied, biting back a retort and forcing his tone to be logical and reasonable, "Ye can't much help anyone if you 'ave nowhere to live."

"Glad you care," Anna responded, smiling bitterly. Mentally she kicked herself . This was not how she wanted their conversation to go. She was trying to put aside their...differences, so they could find his brother (and dupe Rocci out of another victim), but Connor made it so hard for her not to lose her temper. Either he was an emotional wreck, or as much of one as he dared show below his bad ass exterior, or he was a pig headed, chauvinistic asshole set in a one-tracked opinion of how the world works.

_Stop, _she told herself, _You have to extend the olive branch here_.

"Look, let's not fight about this," she continued, "What's done is done and it's not like I haven't...."

The sound of someone knocking cut the words off in her throat. Two heads snapped in the direction of the door, both bodies stiffening. Connor, who was closer to the door, shifted on the couch so that his body was between the door and Anna. His arm shifted back, unconsciously brushing her hip in a protective gesture. Neither breathed, neither moved.

**Duhn Duh-duh-duh Duh Duh Duhn**

The knock this time came in a familiar rhythm. Rolling her eyes, Anna glanced down and brushed Connor's hand away.

"It's Jeremy," she said, standing up. The Irishman glanced up at her, a skeptical look in his eyes. She ignored it as she strode across the room. Allowing the small prick of paranoia to annoy her, she took a quick peak through the peep hole. Jeremy stood in front of the door, dressed in jeans and white t-shirt covered by a thin brown jacket, anxiously rocking back and forth on his heels. His apron hung haphazardly over his right arm. For a second, Anna felt a warm thrill at a sight familiar while the rest of her life had been thrown into chaos. For all his annoying quirks, Jeremy was and always had been a steady, unchanging rock for her....and she had forgotten to tell him she called off work.

"Hey, Jeremy," she greeted as she cracked open her door, not letting unhooking the chain. She mentally kicked herself for the second time in so many minutes.

"'Lo," he replied grinning, "You ready to go there, Anna? I got the car waiting."

Out of the corner of her eye, Anna saw Connor move closer to her on the couch. Looking back at Jeremy, she saw his smile had dropped slightly.

"You okay?" he asked, trying to peak over her shoulder. Anna moved to block him.

"Fine," she replied, "It's just, I'm not fee-"

"You called in sick, didn't you?" Jeremy interrupted, his expression falling to a down right scowl.

"Yeah," Anna acknowledged, looking up guiltily at him. After he had helped her get Connor back to the apartment a second time, he had taken her aside for a moment and begged her to get rid of the Saint.

_"Anna," he pleaded, grasping her elbow lightly, "You can't keep doing this."_

_"Doing what, Jeremy?" She responded exasperatedly, pulling her arm from him._

_"Helping this guy!" he exclaimed, incredulous, "And don't give me bullshit that he's your 'long lost brother', that's a fucking load and you know it."_

_"Watch the language," Anna replied, glaring back at him. Jeremy let out a derisive snort._

_"Do you know who this fu-...guy even is?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a whisper._

_"Yes," Anna replied. Jeremy blinked, as though surprised._

_"Then why are you helping him?" he demanded, "The guy's a murdering psychopath! Isn't it your job to report him or something? You of all people...."_

_"I of all people, what?" Anna demanded, swiveling to face him, "Should what, Jeremy? Know what he is? I do. I'm well aware of it. And I don't need you or any other damn person in the world telling me what I should or shouldn't know!"_

_Jeremy blinked again, stepping back as though struck. Squaring his jaw, he looked at Anna._

_"Then I'll ask you again, why are you helping him?" he said, his voice growing dark._

_"I don't know," Anna replied, lifting her chin so she met his gaze, "But when I have an answer I'll give it to you."_

_Jeremy let out another snort. Turning, he moved as though to leave the kitchen, paused, and turned back around._

_"Well, you better find out damn quick, Anna," he said, "Because if you don't get this bastard out of here soon or call the police or something, I will."_

_With that, he stalked off, leaving her staring at an empty patch of floor in shock._

Anna had known then it was simply a matter of Jeremy being protective. He didn't know what had been exchanged between her Connor. He couldn't possibly know of Rocci's involvement, though if he did, he might understand her position a little better. There were so many things he didn't know and she couldn't hold it against him. She hadn't told him any of it, because some of it wasn't her secret to tell.

"He's still here, isn't he?" Jeremy's tone had grown dark and ugly in the space of second.

"Yes," Anna replied.

"Jesus, Anna, I told you..."

"And I have an answer for you," Anna interrupted before he could go off. Jeremy paused, looking at her quizzically.

"Well, this should be good," he replied.

* * *

Reviews are always welcome!


	19. Bonds broken

Anna felt her hands tighten immediately into fists at the contempt in Jeremy's voice. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and resisted the urge to deck him. It wasn't as though she had purposefully kept him out of the loop. Hell, she had just gotten into the loop herself. True, she hadn't told him everything she had been doing for Connor, but it wasn't his business to begin with. She didn't report to him and he had no claim to know her business, illegal or not. Besides that, she didn't like being bullied. If he even knew the slightest bit about her, he'd know that.

Looking up at him, she met his eyes with an icy smile. Walking over the threshold, she pulled the door closed behind her not even bothering to glance at Connor. Jeremy seemed to sense the sudden change in the air, taking one step back before crossing his arms defensively again. Anna's eyes met his unflinchingly.

"Well," he demanded, false bravado coloring his words.

"Cut the crap, Jeremy," Anna replied coldly, "You're not going to call the cops. So drop the act."

Jeremy's arms dropped as his eyes widened.

"Oh, I'm not," he replied, taking a step towards her, "And why is that, Anna?"

Anna snorted but didn't break eye contacted.

"Because if you did call the cops, you might as well turn in the guys down at Mark's," she responded, "This is nothing compared to some of the shit they've been in on."

Jeremy's jaw dropped open slightly in an incredulous look. He turned his face away from her for a moment to look over the banister. Anna frowned, crossing her arms as she waited for a reply. The jibe had been risky. While pretty much everyone who worked at the restaurant knew a large majority of the men working in the back had some kind of dealings with the mob, the exact nature of those dealings were often just conjecture. Though she was certain Jeremy wasn't part of that crowd, he was friends with the men who were. He, better then most, would be quite aware of some of what they did in their downtime. Finally, he turned back, shaking his head as though not sure what to say.

"H-have you lost it completely, Anna?" he exclaimed abruptly, "My God! That...man," he jarred his right pointer finger towards the door, "That man is dangerous. Do you understand that? Being around him is going to get you killed. At best, you'll be arrested for..."

"Funny you should be worry about me getting arrested," Anna interrupted snidely, "When you're the one threatening to call the cops."

Jeremy closed his mouth, the fires of irritation flashing across his eyes. Running his hands over his face, he looked down at Anna and shook his head.

"What has he done to you, Anna?" he asked, and she struck by the sudden sadness in his voice, "A couple weeks ago you were ranting at me at how you hated the Saints hypocrisy. A couple weeks ago, you wouldn't have blinked if you read that he had been found dead in some alley," he moved closer to her, gently forcing Anna's back against the door. She opened her mouth to protest but he continued, "Fuck, what happened to the girl I know? Did he threaten you? Hurt you? Anna..."

Suddenly, Jeremy's eyes lit with something like understanding. Stepping away from her, he leaned against the banister. Anna felt a dull ache in her chest and realized she had been holding her breathe. Drawing in a sharp breath, she looked down at her feet and then to the other side of the hall. Anywhere that wasn't Jeremy's face.

"Did he promise to kill Rocci for you?" Jeremy asked so softly Anna wasn't sure she heard him, "Anna, did he promise to take vengeance for what Rocci did to your parents?"

"What?" Anna exclaimed, looking up at him appalled, "No! Why would you even..."

She paused as something clicked for her. Way back when she first met Anthony, he had told her Rocci liked to keep his business in house. While the police, everyday citizens, and other bosses could make their conjectures and gather their evidence, no one on Rocci's payroll would give them anything. Especially if they planned on surviving. In other words, only someone related (whether directly or indirectly) to Rocci's empire would know what he was up to and no one else. As far as Anna knew, the boys down at Mark's belonged to completely different family. They wouldn't have known about the circumstances surrounding her parent's death. She hadn't told anyone.

"H-how did you know?" she asked.

"Know what?" Jeremy replied, standing up, "Know he promised to k-?"

"How did you know about Rocci?"Anna demanded angrily.

"You probably told me..." Jeremy replied, looking surprised, "What does it...?"

"No," Anna interrupted again, "No, I didn't tell you that. I've never told anyone but Anthony, or rather he told me."

"Then I guess I heard it from him," Jeremy responded, still sounding perplexed, "He's my...friend too, Anna."

Anna shook her head, slowly reaching behind her for the door knob.

"No," she said, "I asked him not to tell anyone. Especially not you."

"Now why would you do that?" Jeremy asked, sounding hurt this time, "Anna, what are you doing?"

"Get out of, Jeremy," she replied, her hand finding the handle, "Call the police if you want, I don't care."

"Anna!" Jeremy exclaimed, stepping towards her.

"Stay away from me!" Anna screamed, holding a finger out warningly. Behind the door, she could hear the sound of shuffling and knew Connor was heading to her rescue. He needn't bother, she could take care of this herself.

"Stay away from me, Jeremy," she continued, "You hypocritical son of a...The only way you could know that Rocci was behind my parent's death is if you worked for him."

"Anna, that's rid-"

"No, no it's not," she narrowed her eyes murderously, "I mean it, Jeremy, you come near me again and I will cut your balls off."

With that, she swung the door open to a surprised Connor. Backing in quickly, she slammed it behind her. Turning around, she closed her eyes and fell against the door. A thousand and one thoughts and emotions ran through her all at once. For the first time, Jeremy's attentions made sense. They had known each other since they were sixteen but had started working together only after her parents' deaths. The intensity behind his protectiveness of her had nothing to do with his feelings for her (though they might have developed from that intensity), but from guilt. In her heart of hearts, though, she couldn't make herself believe he had any part in the accident itself. The fact that he worked for the man who caused it was probably enough to cause the guilt. At least, that would have been enough for the Jeremy she had known. Now, Anna wasn't sure of anything.

"Ye alrigh', lass?" Connor asked, after staring at her for a full two minutes. Though he had only paid attention to the last few seconds of the conversation. Long enough for a flare of righteous indignation to ignite in the pit of his stomach, fueled by a chivalrous protectiveness towards the woman now crying at the door. If she wasn't leaning there, he would already be after Jeremy, long since ready to pound his pretty-boy face into the ground.

Anna gasped a moment, trying to reign in her emotions. Wiping away the tears in her eyes, she looked up at Connor, breathing heavily. Connor felt his hands tighten into fist. _Why did she close the fuckin' door?_ he thought to himself, _If she's right about that prick, maybe he'd know where Murphy is._

_"_Forget it, Connor," Anna said, as though knowing what he was thinking, "If Jeremy's hanging out with Mark's boys, it's because he's a spy. Rocci wouldn't want him knowing too much. In particular, where a Saint is being held."

"Still," Connor replied, surprised at the relief he felt to not hear tears in her voice, "Roughin' him up bit wouldn't hurt, would it? Considerin' what he jus' put you through?"

"I'll live," Anna said, standing up fully, "How much did you actually hear?"

"Enough," Connor replied, "He did you wrong. A man shouldn't do those sort of things to a lady. At least that's what Ma keeps tellin' us."

Anna snorted. Walking past him, she headed towards the kitchenette.

"I seriously doubt you follow your Ma's word so strictly, Connor," she said.

"Don' be so sure, lass," Connor called back, shuffling to the couch. His body had finally caught up to the rest of him, "Tis dangerous not listenin' to Ma."

He could hear the sound of paper against plastic as he sat down. This was soon followed by the sound of water and a small click. Suddenly, Anna stuck her head out into the hall.

"Any particular flavor of tea you like?" she asked casually.

* * *

**A.N. **Well, I hope this chapter satisfied everyone's hatred towards Jeremy (it was a blast for me to write). Unfortunately, this isn't the last we've seen of him, but if I tell you more I'd have to kill you (jk). I will try to update as soon as possible as the end is coming in sight. Oh, and reviews are like chocolate!


	20. On the Verge of Insanity

A.N. I'm going to hell for this chapter so I'm apologizing ahead of time. (jumps into hatch to escape fangirl wrath).

* * *

The room was still uncomfortably cold despite the blanket covering his back, shoulders, and almost wrapping around his drawn up knees. Murphy shuddered violently, tugging harder on the coarse material in attempt to pull it fully around his aching limbs. Nothing had noticeably changed since the last time he had been in here. The rust shaded brick walls surrounding a cold, grey, cement floor could have been found in any basement in the States. Granted, someone had seemed to take the liberty of hosing down the bloody walls and floor without bothering to dry them afterwards. Murphy could feel the dampness soaking easily through the blanket and his boxers.

Leaning against the corner farthest from the door, he closed his eyes in surrender. A steady stream of tremors racked through him, bringing with them an encompassing pain throughout his body, particularly along his joints. He felt everything. The extended stay in his dark, crawl space prison had activated a hypersensitivity to all his senses. Even through the blanket, he could feel the rough edges of the bricks scratch along his back and sides. The light from the swinging lamp burned through his eyelids. The sounds of traffic or machinery echoed past the brick, louder then it should have been.

_Was there traffic last time I was here?_Murphy thought to himself, pulling himself further into a ball to escape the temperature and noise. He found he couldn't remember and immediately gave up caring. The man he had first been in this room was gone. Replace irrevocably by..._Who?_ Murphy thought to himself, not for the first time, _who have I become?_

_"Yer a coward", _the first voice in his mind provided. Oddly enough, it sounded like Connor.

Opening his eyes, Murphy was unsurprised to see his twin leaning against the opposite corner of the room. Hard, angry, blue eyes stared back at his behind a film of cigarette smoke. Connor, or rather his spirit, took a long drag before flicking a few stray embers to the side. Murphy forced himself to sit up, matching his twins glare with one of his own.

"Wha' did ye call me?" he demanded.

"A coward," replied Connor, standing up himself, "A fuckin' pansy. Wha' would Da think of ye now? Ma? Yer a disgrace to the fa-"

"Shut up, Connor!" Murphy screamed suddenly, unable to take it any longer. His twin had taken his own personal thoughts and them against him, "Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!"

He bent his head onto his knees, covering his hands with his ears like he'd done as a small boy. Shame rolled off him in waves as he began to rock back and forth. He didn't even notice the blanket had slipped from his shoulders into a pile surrounding him.

"Tis not that ye got caught," Connor's voice was in his ears and in his head, "Tis tha' ye left me. Brothers are suppose ta take care of each other, Murph. Where were ya? Yer were suppose ta have my back, Murph. You let me die alone."

"Stop! Fer the love o' God, shut up," Murph begged, clenching his eyes tighter against the tears threatening to break through, "I tried, Connor, Christ I tried. He'll kill Smecker if I don't... I can't have another body on me con-"

"He killed me," Connor replied, "Wha's one more body on yer road ta hell, Murphy?"

Murphy shuddered. Connor only called him his full name when he was serious, or angry. Murphy felt his shoulder tighten as he pulled himself into a tighter ball. He couldn't bear to look up. To see Connor's face bearing down on him with righteous fury. He knew he deserved his brother's wrath. He had failed him, their mission, God Himself. On the same token, though, he also couldn't bear to look up and find nothing there.

"Did you even bother ta ask forgiveness?" Connor continued to berate him, "Did the thought even cross-"

"Leave him alone," another male voice sounded, echoing through Murph. It was gruffer then Connor's, a reflection of the man who owned it. Murph felt rather then saw the owner of the voice approach him and squat down beside him. His sensation of Connor had vanished entirely, making him feel all the more miserable. Angry though he was, Connor was still his brother.

"Got yerself in a real fucking pickle, eh Murphy?" the voice sounded beside him, giving Murph the impression the man was looking around the cell, "Fuck me, a big fucking pickle."

"Not ta put too fine a point on it," Murphy replied, supressing the sudden urge to grin. The tension throughout his body seemed to ease. Though he couldn't feel any skin, he sensed the man had put his hand cautiously on his shoulders.

"Look at me, Murphy," the man said. Murphy shook his head.

"Murph, it's not like we got a lot of time. I need you to look at me," the man insisted, though there was a startling patience to his voice.

"Ye won' be there," Murphy replied, beginning to rock again, "Yer jus' a fuckin' figment, cause I've gone fuckin' mad."

A equally patient sigh followed, added by, "Yeah, you jumped on the loony bin wagon a long time ago. Doesn't mean I'm any less real. Besides, I couldn't talk to you if you weren't."

Murphy found himself opening his eyes at the confession. Cautiously, he lifted his head and glanced to his right. Rocco was looking at him, an almost sad smile on his face. His old friend looked far better then the last time he had seen him. The bloodied torn white shirt had been replaced with a simple grey one beneath a pea-jacket tailored to fit. The jacket itself seemed far more expensive then anything the crazy Italian could have afforded in life.

"Jesus," Rocco said, the smile falling as he took in Murphy's appearance, "You look like shit."

"Thanks Roc," Murphy replied dryly, slipping into the old banter as though he were no longer flirting with the brink, "Can't say ye looked much better last time I saw ya."

"No," Rocco replied, the sadness from his previous smile colouring his tone, "I suppose not."

Murphy felt a wave of guilt flood through him. He could still remember the feel of his friend's last gurgling breath. The feel of his spirit leaving its body while he was bound helpless to stop it. A day had not yet passed when he didn't think of what he could have done, what he should of done. Now he was going to fail again.

"Hey, stop," Rocco called out, as though knowing what Murphy was thinking, "There was not one fucking thing you could have done to stop the son of bitch, short of magically jumping in front of the bullet, and if you had...God knows that would have been a disaster."

"Why's tha', Roc?" Murphy replied, still unable to let go of his dark thoughts.

"Cause I fucking sucked at shooting," Rocco replied without a hint of humor. Murphy snorted. The snort became a chuckle. The chuckle became a laugh. It wasn't long before the laugh became sobbing.

"I can't do it, Roc," Murphy gasped, "I can't die...I can't...I can't k-ki..."

Rocco, for his part, looked aghast as if he had no idea what to do. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he pulled back and smacked the crying Irishman across the face. Murphy jerked in surprise. He had heard the smack, seen the movement, but felt nothing. Putting his hand up, he rubbed the several weeks worth of beard growth, surprised not to feel stinging.

"Get a fucking hold of yourself, Murphy," Rocco breathed, sounding as surprised with himself as Murphy was, "Look, I told you we don't have much time. The only reason I'm still here is the Big Guy," he glanced upward momentarily and crossed himself, "Owes me a favor. Now listen, helps coming."

"I know tha'," Murphy interrupted.

"Not Smecker," Rocco replied.

"Than who?"

Rocco opened his mouth to reply, then hesitated.

"Roc?"

"I can't tell you," the dead Italian replied, "Some big cosmic free will bullshit...just...it's in the cards for you to live, but you have to be willing to keep trying. Murphy, don't let this mother fucker get to you! Don't trust him. Don't believe. Help is..."

The cell door opened.

Murphy looked at his captor as the man walked into the room. He felt a small tingle crawl up from the bottom of his spine, growing colder the higher it went. There was something in the man's eyes not there before. A twinkle of unstoppable savageness he'd never seen before. The small hope that rose from Rocco's visit crashed to a fiery death in the pit of his stomach.

"Parlando a noi ora?" the man spoke, slowly making his way towards Murphy.

_Great, _thought Murphy, _Back to Italian._

_"_Lei sa, alcuni dei più barbari trattamenti erano talvolta pensato come psicologico cure," the man continued.

Suddenly, the man lunged at Murphy. Before the Irishman could stop him, the man grabbed a hold of his ankles. Yanking Murphy forward with viscious strength, he began to drag him out of the room.

"NO! STOP! YOU PROMISED! Lei ha promesso!" Murphy screamed, thrashing wildly. His arms and back dragged against the smooth concrete, giving him nothing to grab hold of. The man said nothing, glancing back momentarily at the door. Twisting right sharply, he pulled Murphy's legs back out from under him, sending the man spinning head first against the wall.

A flash of pain and the room began to spin around Murphy. He could feel the man drop his legs and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he had to get away. Try as he might, however, his arms and legs couldn't seem to work. He felt the man put his arms underneath his, wrapping around his chest. He groaned as the man hefted him up and dragged him from the room. Cool metal ran against his wrist, followed by a clinking sound, and the floor falling away from him. A humming sounded not far from him. The air smelled of ozone. He blinked his eyes in time to see the man pointing a metallic rod towards him. Fire erupted across his body. Pain. Then darkness.

_

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_

A.N.C. I told you I was going to hell. But I couldn't let the story go by without involving Rocco! If Duffy can do it, so can I. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed it nonetheless. So please review...please?

Translations

Parlando a noi ora- talking to yourself now?

Lei sa, alcuni dei più barbari trattamenti erano talvolta pensato come psicologico cure.- You know, some of the most barbaric treatments were sometimes thought of as psychological cures.

Lei ha promesso- you promised


	21. The pieces fall into place

"You're nuts!" the voice on the other end of the line exclaimed, "Fucking mental, Smecker. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Smecker felt a smile tug along the corner of his lips at the outburst. It wasn't the first time anyone had called him crazy, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Crazy was only a common man's description of thinking outside the box. As long as he kept outside of the box, Smecker felt he kept himself ahead of the curve.

"This isn't about me, Kingsley," he replied with the patience of a teacher to an obtuse child, "Now I know you boys down at homicide have been gathering evidence against Rossi for months now. And you and I both know, that no matter how much you get he'll walk. So how about giving me any intel you have on Rossi's movements the last couple of days?"

He could hear the creak of a chair being lent back.

"So let me get this straight. You and your boys," he paused to emphasis the dig, "Up there at organized crime think you can do a better job nailing this son of a bitch? But you want our intel. Why don't you just go and do your own fucking job?"

Smecker felt his hands tighten reflexively around the receiver. Running a hand through his hair, he calmly forced away the wave of irritation sparked by the other man and focused it as the poisonous tip of his sarcastic dagger.

"Fucking job, huh? What's a matter, Kingsley, they forget to teach you professionalism at cop school?" he retorted brazenly.

"Fuck you," the voice on the other end of the line replied._ Got you, _Smecker thought, noting the man had not hung up the phone yet.

"Okay, okay, I sorry that was," he rolled his eyes as he spoke, "Too far. Look, consider it a personal favor. You to me."

There was a pause on the other side long enough to make him hold his breath. At last, the shift of ruffled papers and the tap of a keyboard sounded. Letting out a sigh, Smecker closed his eyes with a self-satisfied smile. _Finally, _he thought, _We're getting somewhere._

"What do you want to know?" Kingsley asked, sounding annoyed with himself.

"Just Rossi's movements over the last couple weeks. Where's he been? Who has he talked to?"

"You mean who has hasn't he talked to," Kingsley replied, "This jack-ass has been all over the map, covering his own hide."

"Well are there any meetings that have stood out? Any oddities in his schedule?" Smecker demanded. Though he knew Rossi liked to keep several steps ahead of investigations, he also knew there was no way a hit on the Saints could go without a meeting with at least one or two of his under-bosses or hit men. Unfortunately, the hit men would make it harder, especially if someone new had entered the game.

"Nope. We've got his ass covered twenty-four seven, in case you didn't know," Kingsley replied, "He's been meeting with his under-bosses, accountants, and lawyers from sun-up to sun-" he paused as though realizing something.

"What is it?" Smecker asked after a moment, repressing the sudden thrill rising through his heart.

"Nothing," replied Kingsley, "Just a few weeks ago he had one day where he did nothing but stay in his suite. Didn't move from there till the the following evening."

"Did he have any visitors?" asked Smecker, hoping against hope.

"Nothing we could record," replied Kingsley, "Though some men on the inside claimed a young man came by the penthouse. Went in for about ten minutes came right back out again. Might have been room service, though."

"Any description on him? Was he pushing a cart?" Smecker snipped.

"Well, no," more paper rustled, "He's described as in his mid to late twenties, dark hair, 6'2". They didn't see his face but he left with a food tray."

"Okay, nevermind," Smecker said, writing down the description, "How about Rossi's associates? Any odd behavior transfer from their boss to them?"

"What's this about, Paul?" Kingsley replied, a note of concern tinging his voice. Smecker felt a flair of irritation and once again suppressed it.

"Nothing concerning you, Kingsley," he replied, emphasising the other man's last name, "Now do you have anything or not?"

A guttural exclamation sounded over the phone, followed by more paper rustling. Smecker glanced up at the clock hanging on his office wall. The hands met together pointing directly at midnight. He had spent the day calling anybody and everybody investigating or connected with Rossi and his outfit. While a majority of the calls had given him nothing, the same young man had been noticed a few times in the last few weeks. One entry of interest was his assistance to moving a man matching Murphy's description into the home of one of Rossi's under-bosses. Unfortunately, the Murphy look alike was seen leaving the house with the unknown man a few days later, wearing the same clothes.

"I've got nothing," Kingsley's reply drew him back to the conversation, "I don't like this, Smecker. Just what kind of game are you guys playing up there at..."

Smecker hung up the phone. He didn't have time to deal with office bigotry or semantics. Despite the fact Kingsley was an efficient note taker, the detective had little intelligence to add to the case and Smecker didn't trust him to keep his mouth shut. Looking down at the information he gathered, he pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave off the coming headache. There wasn't much to be gathered, despite the multiple surveillance units on Rossi and his men. Not even Rossi's men knew much about what was going on, except that a hit had gone down successfully. Smecker was sure the assailants who did know were already at the bottom of the river. He was at a dead end, save for the appearance of the young man at Rossi's and his underboss' home.

"Better than nothing," Smecker spoke aloud to himself. Glancing up at the clock again, he stood up, grabbed his jacket, and headed towards the door. He had promised Connor he would get him any information he could. Despite the late hour, he knew what little he had couldn't wait till morning. However worried for Murphy Smecker was, Connor was a thousand times more. Smecker knew better than anyone a worried Saint made a dangerous one.

* * *

"Yer certain abou' this?" Connor asked, looking up from the notes. Smecker nodded, glancing over at Anna standing in the hallway. Though the girl had made a show of going to her room so as not to be involved, her curiousity seemed to have gotten the better of her.

Connor rubbed his face, thinking. At the moment, he would have killed for a cigarette or even a beer. Based on Smecker's information, he was almost certain the man carried into the underboss' home was his brother. Based on what he had learned of New York and the time table between the shooting and the sighting the pieces seemed to fit together. Also, the gap caused by the drive would give Murphy time to gain conciousness if he had lost it, but be too out of it to fight back. Above all, though, Connor just felt it was right. As though someone were pointing out an underlined passage to him.

"Well," he said finally, already deciding what to do, "The way I see it, we best pay this Gioranza a visit."

"What?" Anna exclaimed, pushing off from the wall she had been leaning on, "Are you serious?"

"Damn straight I am," Connor replied, "Murph's there," he tapped his finger on the paper, "An' I'm goin' ta find him."

"You can barely walk," Anna retorted, walking over to him. She lent over to glance at Smecker's notes, "And this address is in Queens."

"So?" Connor demanded, glaring up at her.

"So, how do you plan to get there?" Anna replied, crossing her arms. Connor scowled at her before looking over at Smecker.

"Can't," the FBI agent replied, "This is all the help I can give you."

"What?" Connor exclaimed and even Anna looked at him surprised.

"I can't be on scene for anymore of your..." Smecker paused, looking for the right word, "Escapades. It'll look suspicious and that's the last thing we need."

"Great," Connor seethed, "Fuckin' great!"

He stood up, momentarily grabbing the couch for support. With a sour glance around the room, he shuffled towards the door.

"Connor! What are you doing?" Anna exclaimed, moving after him.

"'m gonna find me brother," Connor replied, grabbing the door handle. Before he could open it, though, Anna took a flying leap, slamming the door shut with her body. Overlapping his hand with her's, she held tightly to the knob, not allowing him to turn it again.

"Let go, lass!" Connor demanded, a shadow of menace to his voice.

"No," Anna replied.

"Anna, ye don' want to get in my way,"Connor replied, "Now let go."

"Your not gonna hurt me, Connor," Anna shot back, "I'm an innocent."

"Not that innocent," Connor replied darkly.

Anna bristled momentarily at the comment, but refused to let go. Smecker stood back, watching the pair with cool, analytical eyes.

"He's my brother, Anna," Connor said after a moment, his voice almost breaking, "He'd never forgive me if I didn't come for 'im."

Anna frowned. She couldn't stop her chest throbbing with a sympathetic pain. It was becoming too easy to forget the monster Connor was. Too easy to see the man.

"And you'd never forgive yourself if you tried and failed," she replied softly. Slowly she moved her hand to Connor's wrist, gently prying him away from the door. His eyes met hers and for a moment, it was as though he bore the pain of two men.

"Look," she continued, "We don't know your brother's in there. You can't just go in guns blazing," she paused at the irony of her words, "And get him out."

"Why the fuck not?" Connor retorted, pulling his hand out of her's. The tingling warmth of her palm still played along his skin.

"Because," Anna said, her expression dropping into incredulous disbelief, " You have to be rational about this, Connor. If he's not there-"

"Fuck rationality!" Connor interrupted angrily, stepping towards the door once again. Anna shifted to block his path. Lifting her hand to her face, she bit down lightly on her index finger to silence the sharp retort on her mind.

Looking Connor dead in the eye she finished, "It could get him killed if he isn't there. Look, what we need to do is scout the place out first. And, being the sort of people we are, we can find out more then the cops."

"You have something in mind?" Smecker called out, surprising the pair.

Both turned towards the agent. Connor eyes moved between the two, uncertain and angry. For a moment, he reminded Smecker of a caged lion making Anna the unfortunate tamer. Then, slowly, a dangerous smile carved its way up Anna's face.

"Something," she replied.

* * *

A.N. Oh boy, we're getting down to the wire here folks. There will probably only be two or three more chapters to this story. (pause for orchestra of groans) However, the boys' adventures with Anna aren't over yet. The sequel for this fic "A DEVIL IN MANHATTAN" is in progress and will be up a day or two after this ends. No worries, though, plenty of plot twist are still on the way (and a cliff or two). Reviews appreciated!


	22. A Call to Arms

_Sitting_ and waiting had never been one of Connor's strong suits.

Flipping off the television, he rubbed his face with his hands once more glancing at the clock on the wall. Anna had been gone four hours already and had yet to call or make any sort of contact at all. Standing up, Connor began pacing, trying to ward off the anxious energy building in his system. Again, he found himself wishing for a pack of smokes or possibly a gun to clean. Even the hard wood of his rosary to recite his prayers would have been welcome. Anything to keep his hands busy as he waited. Glancing up at the clock again, he saw the minute hand had moved down one more notch.

Turning around, he walked towards the kitchenette. Despite Anna's claims to the contrary, he had been growing steadily stronger the last couple of days. Especially now he almost felt like his old self. _Only incomplete,_echoed the voice in his head darkly. It was true. Even as he worried about Anna's safety, a larger part of his soul harbored fear for his brother. In a sense beyond reason or simple deduction, he knew his brother was in pain. In dreams, his brother's suffering was almost tangible while awake he could almost feel him slipping somewhere beyond his reach. In the past few days, as Connor felt himself grow physically stronger his awareness of that immeasurable, spiritual bond between him and Murphy had begun to wan. One moment it burned brightly through his heart and soul, momentarily drawing him away from the reality surrounding him to wherever his brother was being kept, while other times he could barely feel it at all. As the days grew longer, he lost assurance the dimming bond would ever return. The hardest part of all he had come to realize, though, was just not knowing where Murphy was slipping to.

Turning an about-face, he looked once more at the clock to see two more minutes had passed. _Alright, _he thought to himself, _If she doesn't call in another ten minutes, I'll call Smecker to go in after her. _Though Connor would have personally preferred to be present on the sidelines and be able to charge in at anytime, he had been out-voted by both his co-conspirators into staying home. Despite Smecker's commentary that it could only take divine providence for the plan to work, he had agreed with Anna's assessment that Connor's presence armed or otherwise might endanger himself, her, and possibly Murphy. Connor believed that even if they didn't find his brother, he could still give Rossi a warning that he was coming for him and only a great fool would dare to touch another hair on his brother's head.

Now glancing at the phone, Connor had to clench his hands into fists to prevent himself from grabbing the receiver. Anna had promised she would call him as soon as she was earshot of anybody, or barring that, as soon as she made it to Smecker's car. Smecker had promised to keep in contact as well but seemed to have forgotten, leaving Connor deaf, dumb, and blind to whatever was going on. For all he knew, they could be dead or worse. _I should be there, _he thought, brushing his hand along the cross tattooed to his arm, _God, please let them be alright. _As though deciding it was time to answer His servant's prayers, the phone came to life with a buzzing ring. Lunging for the receiver, Connor pulled the wireless handset savagely up from its rest.

"Hello, Anna, hello?" he replied, the thought not entering his mind someone might be trying to call her.

"Yeah, it's me," her voice was soft even whispering directly into the receiver, "I just got here."

"Wha' do ya mean ye jus' got there?" Connor exclaimed, looking up at the clock to see if he had read it correctly. Indeed, four hours and fifteen minute had passed since he had last seen her.

"Doesn't matter," came the reply, "Let's just say we got a little lost."

Connor was almost certain he could detect a glimmer of humor in her voice.

"It seems the inability to ask for directions effects men all across the board," she explained, "Anyway, some woman answered the door. I think she..." there was a pause filled with the sound of moving china, "Is the girl of whoever owns this place. Let me in without question and directed me to the dining room. I guess the maid always comes on Thursday or something so it turned out to be great luck for us."

Connor closed his eyes, allowing a brief smile to grace his features. Luck indeed. That was twice today now the Almighty had given an answer to his prayers. He only hoped the answers would continue to be good.

"Anyway, Smecker gave me twenty minutes to look around," Anna explained, sounding as though she was moving, "And so far..."

There was the sound of a door opening and tentative steps on wood. A faint crackle sounded over the phone making Connor suspect she was heading for the basement. It was as good a place to start as any. A few more steps sounded, followed by three words he had never wanted to hear.

"Oh my God!"

* * *

A.N. MWHAHAAHAHAHAAA! I am evil, no? Sorry if this seems a little far-fetched but I figure a little intervention might be necessary for our poor boys. As always, please review!


	23. All Fall Down

The cool weight of the pistol sat comfortably in his palm, almost like an extra digit for his outstretched hand. His feet were planted firmly at an angle, facing his armed target without being a large one himself. The air smelt of gunpowder overlapping the coppery tang of blood. Bright lights illuminated everything to the point the details in his peripheral were washed away. All he could see was down the barrel of his gun, the man behind it, and the glint of the metal pointed back at him. Muscles tensed, automatically aware of how much force was required to squeeze the trigger and resist recoil. Every sense was locked in preparation and yet the Saint, who had ended the lives of so many men, could not pull the trigger.

"Murph?"

His opponent stared at him. He wore nothing but the blue boxers he had put on the day he'd been taken and a pair of socks. There was something almost ridiculous to the ensemble, particularly when paired with the .22 in his hand, but Connor didn't feel like laughing. The limited clothing also served to illuminate the various cuts, bruises, and fresh looking burn marks across every inch of Murphy's body and face. The pain, grief, and shame his brother had endured seemed to suddenly flood into him all at once. The room pulsated with it, bathed and marked forever. An irrational, ferocious, protective fury seized him much as it had the moment the Russians forced Murphy out of their loft. Slowly, he lowered his weapon, turning to fully face Murphy. It was only then that he noticed his twin's hand was shaking.

"Murph? It's me," Connor paused, a sickening cold spreading along his insides at the thought Murphy might not even know his name, "Tis Connor."

Later on, he would never be able to recall what sort of reaction he had expect. At the very least, he knew it was not the one he got. He forced himself to step back as a look of pure, unmitigated horror ran across Murphy's face. The too pale, beaten, broken man suddenly grew several shades paler, almost to the point Connor feared he'd pass out.

"No! No, it can' be!" A hoarse whisper, that couldn't have been Murphy's but was, erupted from the terrified man. As the need to save his brother grew stronger, every fiber in Connor's being suddenly resisted with equal measure. Looking in Murphy's eyes, Connor saw the man his brother was was not there.

"Can't be what, Murph?" he asked cautiously, trying to sound normal. It only occured to him then that Murphy was still pointing the gun at him and he didn't know if it was still loaded.

"Y-yer de-," Murphy stopped, as though afraid his words would confirm the truth in the matter, "He said he..."

For the first time in their lives, Connor found himself unable to decipher the look on his twin's face. Murphy's expression ran the gamut of terror to relief, anger to shame, suspicion to understanding, and back again. All combined revealing nothing but a soul on the verge of destruction. The brothers stared at each other unable to even recognize his opposite, silence now their only companion. Until even that companionship was broken by the clatter of metal on concrete as Murphy's pistol fell limply from his hand. In that instant, Connor could see a look of horrified realization in Murphy's eyes, though what was being realized he couldn't say.

"Oh God," Murphy spoke, in the same half whisper as before. He took a step back from Connor, head bowed by the weight of terrible knowledge, "He...I was..."

He backed away from Connor, his pace slowly increasing with every step. He turned from him, running until the walls prevented him from running anymore. Then, he just slid soundlessly to his knees.

"God, no," he cried out after a moment, his hands rising to cover his head, "'m sorry. God, 'm so sorry. 'm sorry..."

Connor was left only to stare in complete confusion as his brother pulled himself into a ball, apologizing as though he had performed the worst of all offenses. The apologize soon faded into chopped bits of Latin, a confession. A small trickle of apprehension played along Connor's lower back as he realized he wasn't sure to what Murphy was confessing or even really to whom. Only when he realized his brother was now sobbing did it stop mattering.

______

* * *

_The cab had dropped him off a few blocks from the address Smecker had given him before they left. Stepping out onto the warm, unshaded sidewalk of an average looking urban neighborhood, Connor felt that same tug he had the moment he read Smecker's notes. It was as if the missing side of him was calling out, saying _here I am! Here!_For a moment, his weakened condition was forgotten as the adrenaline, which had been hastily building since he left the apartment, ignited his senses and eased the remaining aches. Casting a glance around the neighborhood, his eyes fell on Smecker's car, parked a block from where he assumed the house Anna and Murphy were in stood. Despite the knee jerk reaction to go charging in, what was left of his rational mind reminded Connor he needed the agent's help._

_Tucking his hands into his jacket (having finally rescued it from a plastic bag in Anna's room), he moved briskly towards the vehicle. To anybody watching, he looked for all the world like he belonged in the neighborhood. Walking up to the driver side door, he pulled out a hand to tap on the glass. From his vantage point, he could see Smecker twitch at the sudden interruption only to turn and let out a muffled curse at the sight of the perpetrator. Cracking open the window slightly, he fixed Connor with a furious glare._

_"What the fuck are you doing here, MacManus?" he demanded, addressing the younger man by his surname for the first time._

_"Anna's in trouble. I need a gun," came the blunt reply back as Connor glance momentarily at the house,sizing it up. Smecker blinked, taken aback by the statement._

_"What do you mean she's in trouble?" he demanded, "She would have called me..."_

_"Well, she didn't. She called me. Now give me a goddamn gun," Connor interrupted, and Smecker could hear the flawless change from common man to Saint in his voice. He felt a chill, almost equivalent to reverence in another man, run through him. All arguments he might have posed died suddenly on his lips as he stepped out of the car, pulling an automatic pistol out from the back seat. If Connor found anything odd about the weapon's position, he said nothing as the agent handed it to him. Checking the safety, he took in the sense of partial completeness he hadn't felt in the past few weeks._

_"So what's the plan?" Smecker asked,pulling his own gun out of it's holster. Connor looked up at him, his eyes baring nothing but a dead calm._

_"We kick down the fuckin' door," he replied. For the second time in so many minutes Smecker blinked._

_"Now wait a minute," the agent started, recovering quickly, "We need a better..."_

_He paused as he realized Connor wasn't listening. The Irishman had already turned and was heading directly towards the house. In the middle of one of the largest, loudest metropolises on the planet there was suddenly nothing but silence. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. It was as though the whole neighborhood had frozen in anticipation of the bloody vengeance about to be wreaked and Smecker found himself caught up in it, realizing a moment too late he was too far away to prevent the Saint from doing something rash and more then likely suicidal._

_Stalking up the stairwell, Connor lifted his weapon and delivered a sharp kick against the white painted, hardwood surface. The door groaned under the sudden pressure but didn't cave. Lifting his foot again, Connor smashed it once more against the door, closer to the lock. Again, the wood groaned, shifted back a little, and remained standing. Scowling fiercely, Connor raised his foot in one last attempt. Wood splintered as his foot collided against, snapping and bending off its frame as the metal chain wrent apart from its lock. The sound of a woman screaming erupted on his right as he entered. Whirling his weapon in the direction of the sound, he aimed his gun at a terrified woman now standing frozen in the living room entrance. At the sight of metal, the woman's scream died on her lips as she lifted her hands up in a pathetic attempt to protect herself_

_"Oh God, please, please don-"_

_"Where is he?" Connor demanded, stepping menacingly towards her. The woman shrieked, jumping back, her hands waving wildly._

_"STOP! Please!" she screamed, "Stop! I don't have anything!"_

_"WHERE IS HE?" Connor roared. He looked her over, noting immediately that despite her age, her hair dyed bleach blond to cover it, the navy blue shirt she wore over her tight, black miniskirt left nothing to the imagination. Particularly when they were paired with six-inch black stilettos. It didn't take an intellectual to recognize a working girl when he saw one and with that knowledge, Connor felt all pity he might have had vanish._

_"Who?" the woman demanded, tears running black lines of mascara down her rounded face, "I don't know. Please, take what you want. I won't say any-"_

_"Where's Murphy?" Connor felt his anger get the better of him as he drew even closer to the woman. She backed further away from him, only to find herself trapped against the wall, with nowhere to turn. Connor continued his advance until the gun was mere inches from her skull, "Where is he?"_

_"For fucking sake, I DON'T KNOW!" the woman screamed back at him, flinching away just as quickly, "I don't know. I don't know. Please, God, I don't kn-"_

_She lifted her hands to her face, crumpling to the ground in hysterics. Connor barely noticed, however, as something caught his eye. Looking over to the right, he saw a well furnished dining table, with a china teapot at it's very center. Turning away from the crying woman, he moved towards it remembering the sound of china on Anna's call. As he moved into the dining room, he saw the door on the far wall standing ajar. Nothing but darkness stood behind it. Casting a final glance at the woman behind him, Connor tightened his grip on the pistol and moved slowly forward. A small bit of light fell through the doorway, revealing a set of wooden stairs._

_"Anna?" he called down cautiously. No one answered._

_Stepping carefully onto the step, he paused. Turning around, he stepped into the kitchen on his left. The sound of the woman crying had ceased, but he cared little. Rummaging quickly through the drawers, his hand closed on what he was looking for. Clicking on the flashlight, he returned to the stairwell and began his descent. His boots creaked noisily on the wood as he hit the weak point of every stair. The place was surrounded in pitch blackness._

_As his foot came down on the final step, he heard the crack of plastic. Aiming the flashlight down, he saw the remnants of a dropped cell phone. Lifting his foot up partially, he recognized it immediately as Anna's. Looking up, he tensed, prepared for anything. The room stank of blood, propelling him back momentarily to Yakavetta's basement of horrors. Stepping carefully onto the cement floor he thought he heard the sound of a chain rustling. Panning the flashlight across the room accomplished nothing. The beam could barely penetrate two feet in front of him. Backing up slowly, he moved until his back touched the wall. He could feel the presence of someone in the dark, but had no way of knowing just where. He dared not call for Anna, fearing it might give away his position. Again, the echo of chains rustling sounded, louder this time. _

_He could feel his guts shrivel at the realization of how much fucking trouble he was in. He had no idea where Smecker was and no hope the agent would make it past the potential witness. He couldn't see anything and knew better then to grope around in the dark. For the first time in his life, he couldn't come up with a goddamn plan. Then, he heard it. A faint whisper not far off. The sound of a struggle, and then a scream._

_"CONNOR!"_

_A man yelled out and light flashed followed by the crack of cement a few feet in front of him. Connor ducked beneath the stairs, recognizing the flash and sound for what it was. Suddenly, the room erupted in blindingly bright light. Looking on the other side of the steps, Connor could see Anna, alive, ducking down and away from large fuse box. Her eyes met his, wide and scarred. She pushed up, scrambling awkwardly towards him. Suddenly a hand shot out from nowhere, seizing ahold over her hair. Anna shrieked, her hands flying up instantly to claw helplessly at her attacker. Connor's view of the man was blocked._

_"Anna!" he yelled, moving to help her. The cement behind him exploded forcing him to duck away from the shooter. _

_"Let go of me you son of a bitch! Let go! Connor!" he could hear the panic in Anna's voice, delicately lace with the edge of fight found only when staring death in the face. He saw her feet rise as the assailant pulled her up by the hair and heard a gagging sound combined with the slap of skin on skin. _Damnit!_, he thought, _he's using her as a shield.

_Glancing out on the other side, he ducked again, managing only to see Anna being pulled backwards by someone. The man, whoever he was, cowered behind her, hand around her throat while the right one aimed a gun over her shoulder. Peaking around the step, Connor watched the pair back slowly around the corner into an apparent hallway formed by a protruding brick room. Ducking back, he closed his eyes, a prayer briefly running through his head. Taking a deep breath, he opened them, jumping out from beneath the stairwell. A shot exploded behind him as the man fired from behind the corner. Raising his own gun, Connor opened fire, sprinting towards the back wall of the protruding structure. The man ducked back, avoiding the shots. Connor could still hear the sounds of a struggling body. _

_"Anna," he called out, "'m comin'. Hold on!"_

_He peaked around the corner, firing another shot to keep the man stuck behind the wall. He hoped the spot had no exits, though he was fully aware he couldn't just open fire. At best, he might get lucky and kill the shooter. At worst, he could hit Anna._

_"Fuck,"he whispered, mostly to himself. He glanced momentarily around the corner and back to the stairwell. _Where the fuck is Smecker? _He could here a muffled voice behind him, taking him a second to realize it was Anna._

_"Let go of me please," she was begging, her voice halting as she strained against her captor, "He won't hurt you if you let me..."_

_Before she could finish, though, a sickening thud sounded. The sound reminded Connor of the packaging plant, the sound of metal against meat and bone._

_"Anna?" he called out, a deep fear shooting through him turning his blood to ice. No one responded. _

_"Anna, answer me!" it was his turn to beg. _No, _he thought, _No, she can't be. It was my job to protect her. My duty. No.

_Another noise sounded, something heavy sliding against the ground. He dared to glance around the corner, only to see Anna's limp body fall into the open space. From the distance, he couldn't tell if she was breathing._

_"Mother Fucker!" He cried out, fear turning to rage in an instant. Roaring with fury, he turned the corner, intent on making the man pay with his last breath..._

_

* * *

_

He tensed at the yell. He knew the man would come for him and he didn't care. He didn't care if the man planned to put a bullet in his brain or his gut. He knew he deserved it. Glancing only briefly at the young woman now prone on the floor, he felt his knees almost give way beneath the wave of shame and remorse. He hadn't meant to kill her. The quick stroke to the back of the head had only been meant to startle her, at most knock her out. But the whistling groan she let out...he knew what a dying breath sounded like. His arms were shaking so hard, he couldn't stop her from slipping to the floor. In the end, he'd done what the man had asked of him.

Looking at the gun, he contemplated just throwing it to the floor. It would be so easy. Just toss it to the side and step around the corner. No fight and he would end up where he deserved to be. Memories flashed before him, time seeming irrelevant in their wake:

__

He had woken to his name being called. A female voice, questioning. She stood over him, her expression one of abject horror. He felt the chains come off his wrist and her fingers brush against his. She was saying something. Reassuring him. Connor. She said Connor's name, but how could she know? Everything came fuzzy and then he saw it. On the chair the man was sitting on, a .22. Dread hit his gut like a punch. He looked at the woman, but she had turned away from him. She was looking for something. God, why her? _He reached for the gun. She looked back and saw him. The lights went out, but he had already grabbed ahold of her. Noise upstairs. The same pounding footsteps. The man was coming to see his dirty work. Anger raged through him. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't. A voice, almost familiar, called out. Anna. The girl struggled. It must have been her name. Footsteps. His heart raced, almost painfully. He wouldn't do it. He couldn't. Maybe if pretended...Nothing came rationally anymore. A pain in his hand as the girl bit him. Connor. No, Connor was dead. The girl elbowed him in the side. He lost his grip on her. The gun. Then light. Blinding light. Someone was under the stairwell. HE was under the stairwell. Another shot. He grabbed the girl, pulling her back to him. He had to get out. She wouldn't stop fighting. She wouldn't stop calling his dead brother's name. Connor. He had to get out!_

No_, __he decided. He wouldn't drop the gun. He may not deserve to live, but he had still been a Saint. He couldn't let the man go free without justice being served. He owed the girl and Connor that. Tightening his grip on his gun, he began whisper his family prayer._

_"...In Nomeni Patri Et Fili Spirtus Sancti"_

_He rounded the corner._

* * *

The gun dropped from his hand as he ran down the hall towards Murphy. Dropping to his knees beside him, he stared, momentarily helpless, at his brother unsure of how to comfort him. Murphy continued to sob, pulling himself tighter and tighter into a ball. Only when he began to dry heave did Connor grab hold of him.

"Shh, shh," he whispered, wrapping his arms protectively around Murphy's shaking shoulders, pulling him upright, "Yer safe. Shh. I got ye, Murph"

The words meant to comfort, however, only excited deeper, louder sobs. Connor could feel Murphy squirm against him, straining helplessly to get free. Connor held on tighter. He could feel his shirt grow damp with Murphy's tears and sweat. His body chose then to register its complaints at his movements, the adrenaline's edge finally wearing off, but he ignored it. He could hear Murphy mumbling into his shoulder, now. Curses in Italian, Gaelic, and English. His fist still pounded painfully against Connor's side, but still Connor held on. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see movement. He turned his head in time to see Anna sitting up slowly, her hand moving to the back of her head. Relief flooded him. Her eyes turned towards him after a second, burning with anger and pain. As they met his, though, the anger seemed to melt away. Taking in the scene, it was rapidly replaced by understanding and glimmer of pity.

"'m sorry," Murphy mumbled, gasping between sobs, "God, 'm sorry."

Connor looked down again, realizing Murphy still believed himself a killer.

"Shh, Murph," he said, rubbing Murphy's back as though he were a child. A stray memory of Ma came to his mind, "She's alright. The lass. Ye didn't hurt her."

He was certain he could hear a sarcastic snort come from Anna's direction, but he didn't bother to look. Murphy was staring up at him now, glassy blue eyes wide with awe. The sobbing had begun to halt slightly, as though his body couldn't take it anymore. His black hair had taken on a shaggy quality Connor noticed the way it stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat. He tensed as Murphy suddenly lifted a shaky hand, pressing it cautiously against his brother's face.

"Wha' the fuck?" Connor exclaimed, caught off guard. Murphy flinched, yanking his hand back as though burnt.

"Ye...ye're alive," he stammered haltingly, his voice still a coarse whisper. _Blown out his vocal chords,_ Connor realized belatedly. Murphy was still staring at him as though he were an apparition that would vanish if he breathed too suddenly.

"Well of course I am ye fuckin' twit!" Connor exclaimed, releasing his hold on his brother's shoulder's slightly, "Been lookin' over this whole goddamn city for ya."

A warm glimmer of joy flickered to life in Murphy's heart, overwhelming him only in its unfamiliarity. No one aside from his brother would address him like that, even the man. Suddenly he let out a gasp that was a half-sob and half-laugh. Falling back against Connor's shoulder, he took in everything: the solidity of the body against his, the warmth in contrast to the basement, the smell he had grown with as sure as his own, the heartbeat, and the sounds of breathing. Everything he needed to convince himself his brother was there, protecting not condemning him. In that instant, he let go, allowing it all to wash over him. Against his brother's shoulder he finally wept.

Connor closed his eyes as he felt the dampness along the top of his shoulder. He could feel his own tears of anger and relief begin to form, but refused to let them fall. Murphy needed him now, and he be damned if he didn't come through. Wrapping his arms once more around his brother, he opened his eyes enough to shoot a wary glare at Anna. She nodded at him, seeming to understand the men's need for privacy. He watched as she carefully turned herself around, leaning sideways against the wall with her back to them. Closing his eyes again, Connor squeezed gently, assuring his brother he was still there. Lifting his eyes heavenward, he prayed only two simple words:

_Thank you._

* * *

A.N. Well, there you have it folks. The boys are back together again. Woot, Woot! The next chapter will be this story's epilogue, so stay tuned. Reviews much appreciated.


	24. Enough

A.N. So, here we are, folks. The last chapter (tears up). Hopefully you all have enjoyed the adventure as much as I have. Fortunately, it isn't the end. I will soon be posting the sequel to this "The Devil in Manhattan" in a couple days to tie up the loose ends (note: dead men) and bring the brothers more closure with what happened. Anyway, I want to thank you all for reading and reviewing (and pestering me for updates ;) ). Hope you enjoy.

* * *

Sitting in the now darkened sanctuary of St. Peter's Cathedral, Special Agent Paul Smecker found himself once again marveling at the monumental power of faith or feeling on the actions of men. At the core of his thoughts, though, sat the almost maddening revelation that before such forces he himself was as powerless as any other. For as much as he respected the MacManus brothers and believed their actions to be necessary, he often found the cloak of their faith encumbering to the simplicity of their task. It wasn't until he heard the gunshots, however, that he realized how wrong he'd been.

Such personal analysises, however, were for a different time. Glancing to his right, he favored the approaching Anna with a rare smile. The young woman returned the expression with a tired one of her own before slowly lowering herself into the pew beside him.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked as though suddenly remembering her manners.

"Doesn't look like I have much choice," Smecker replied. Anna nodded before proceeding to lose her eyes and lean back into the pew.

For a long moment, the pair sat in silence. Eventually, Smecker began finding his attention drawn from the church's ornate Crucifix to the young woman beside him. While her injuries weren't as severe as Murphy's (he'd all but forgotten himself capable of the rage he had felt seeing the burn marks and the burned-out outlet in the basement's corner) they had still required immediate attention. In the privacy of his own mind he had gone over the day's events for the thousandth time already, wondering if he could have at least spared her injury. He knew coming upon the scene in the basement, it had taken too damn long bribing the hooker out, he'd never forgive himself for not finding Murphy sooner. That said, though, seeing the two together, alive, had almost made him want to say a prayer of thanks. Almost. There was still work to do. Moving the injured upstairs and out to the car. Fashioning a homemade icepack to stem the bleeding and swelling from Anna's wound. Finding a blanket to cover Murphy. Driving them all to St. Peter's Cathedral where Father Genosa (a supporter of the Saints) was waiting at the back door. Everything prepared ahead of time in hope that...

Smecker had never been a religious man but that didn't preclude him from reading the Bible. He found he often preferred the harsh solidity of the Law to the slippery, often confusing doctrine of the Gospel. In the law there was no question, no doubt. Yet, he acknowledged that in some respects the parts of scripture he found wanting had merits of their own. For instance, the cynical man could not deny, even to himself, that a certain truth rang about the sustainability of hope. Even though all facts pointed to the contrary, he had still found himself hoping they would find Murphy alive.

"The doctor wanted me to mention the damage wasn't as severe as he thought," Anna suddenly spoke aloud, interrupting his reverie, "Connor's bro- Murphy's going to be fine."

Smecker turned, surprised slightly by the timing of the statement. Anna remained reclining in the pew, seemingly comfortable, with her eyes still closed. He couldn't be certain if she had opened them and seen something in his face or if her own thoughts had gone down a similar path. His ability to read into people seemed to have been shot to hell as of late.

"Funny," he finally replied, matching her position on the pew, "You don't seem convinced."

He watched as Anna's eyes opened slowly, still slightly fuzzy despite the doctor's okay. Part of his preparation had included bringing in a surgeon, a friend of Father Genosa and fellow supporter of the Saints, to do what he could should they find Murphy alive. He had diagnosed Anna with minor concussion, ordering she stay the night at the church for monitoring, and bandaged her up to stave of the rest of the bleeding. The fuzziness, however, took nothing away from the frown etching its way across the young woman's face. Smecker recognized it immediately for what it was. He had often produced one of his own when drawing conclusions at crime scenes.

"Physically, I have no doubts," she said finally, closing her eyes once more. It was so damn hard to keep them open, "It's his mental state I'm worried about."

"Hmm," Smecker replied as way of acknowledgement. Anna opened her eyes. Turning her head to the side, she fixed a curious glare on him.

"You're not?" she asked, sounding almost appalled at his supposed lack of concern. Smecker shook his head.

"It's not that I'm not worried," he replied "But I know these two...longer then you have anyway. As long as there together-"

"They'll either make it or one will bring the other down with him," Anna finished with clinical inflection in her voice.

Smecker glowered, his immediate reaction defensive of the boys. However, rationality soon followed and he realized, on some level, he knew she was right. He was aware of the fallibility of men and the processes by which those weaknesses could be derived. He was also aware of the cost being forced to face those weaknesses could toll. Yet even now that little inkling of hope still remained, fueled by something stronger.

"Then they'll just have to make it," he replied finally, "They're still needed."

Anna snorted, turning away from him.

"You still believe that crap?" she responded eventually, a note of curiosity in her voice.

"Don't you?" Smecker replied, his own tone matching her's. He found it hard to believe that for all the trouble the young woman had gone through for the boys she still claimed she didn't believe in their mission. Either she was adept at fooling herself, or she was lying.

She didn't answer for a long time. Eyeing her, Smecker saw her face was drawn into one of intense concentration. It were as though a silent debate was raging through her mind and he couldn't make out which side was winning. Eventually, she drew in a deep breathe through her nose and turned to look at him again.

"I believe there's evil in this world," she began, "I believe evil should be punished though I know that sometimes it doesn't happen. I understand what Connor and Murphy want but I don't believe the way they go about it is correct. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. What they've chosen to do has put them on a slippery slope and they have no way of knowing what repercussions they'll encounter. Look what's happened here. Can you honestly tell me you feel safe having Murphy go after scum like Rossi after what's happened to him?"

She paused to see if the agent would answer. When he didn't, she shrugged, turned away and continued, "But what do I know? Not like it matters in the end."

"What do you mean?" Smecker replied. A ghost of a smile teased Anna's lips as she sat up. Leaning over the edge of the pew in front of them, she folded her hands.

"I still helped them," she said wistfully, "And I'm still going to help them. I always wanted to go into counseling and it looks like I've got my first patients, " she turned to look back at Smecker, "We may not agree on what they do, but we can at least agree they need our help."

An almost bemused grin spread along Smecker's face.

"Think that's enough?" he replied. Again, Anna shrugged.

"As far as I know, we're all they got," she replied.

"They've got each other.

Anna's eyebrow raised in an unspoken echo of Smecker's own question.

"Yeah, it's enough."

**THE END**


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